


Thicker Than Blood

by AvocadoLove



Category: (500) Days of Summer (2009), Inception (2010)
Genre: Crossover, F/M, Family Secrets, M/M, Meet the Family, Metaphysics, Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-07
Updated: 2011-06-23
Packaged: 2017-10-20 05:35:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/209316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvocadoLove/pseuds/AvocadoLove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"My brother, Tom, has been missing for three days."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is now available as a Podbook, read by the talented Kansouame. [Download here](http://www.mediafire.com/?n0420eynbhht4tl)
> 
> Originally written and posted on the Inception Kink meme for this prompt: Arthur gets a phone from his sister, Rachel. His identical twin brother, Tom, is in some sort of trouble and Arthur must fly back to the states to help out after several years of being estranged from the family. Eames tags along.
> 
> Beta read by Starlingthefool. (Thanks!!!)

Arthur's phone rang just as they'd finished maneuvering their mark, a currently unconscious woman named Darlene Flemming, onto a lawn chair in preparation for the extraction.

Eames raised an eyebrow. "Really now, Arthur, how do you manage a generic phone ring on that? It has more buttons than a keyboard."

Ignoring him, Arthur removed his smart phone from his pocket and glanced at the caller ID. An odd expression passed quickly over his face – there and gone again before Eames could fully identify it: annoyance mixed with apprehension, perhaps.

But Arthur stuck the phone back in his pocket without comment and nodded to Yusuf, who was manning the PASIV. Mrs. Flemming may have looked like a delicate flower, but by all reports her subconscious was ultra militarized. It would take six hours under in real time, two levels deep, and five separate mazes to have any chance at cracking her.

Ariadne arranged herself in a chair on the mark's other side. She bit her lip as she slid the cannula in. Eames, who had planned out three different forges for this venture, would be partnering with her in the actual extraction. Arthur would take point as usual: they'd use his stable mind to hold the first level up while he and Ariadne went searching for secrets.

Eames' eyes locked briefly with Arthur's. The other man's lip ticked up in a small, challenging smirk: they'd planned this job out for a month together. Now it was time to see what they were made of.

If this went well – or hell, if it didn't, Eames promised himself he was going to take Arthur somewhere tropical and private. Clothing optional.

"Ready?" Yusuf asked, his hand on the PASIV's plunger.

"Whenever you are," Eames said cheerfully and leaned back. A wave of exhaustion swept him away.

 

* * *

  
The job was a success, for what it was worth. Which, for Eames, meant nearly seventy-five thousand pounds.

"Not bad, all in all," he said as he relaxed back in his seat. It had been atrociously cold in that warehouse and he had woken up shivering. The rental car's heated leather seats were a godsend.

Arthur was driving – he normally did after jobs, still keyed up with adrenaline and the compulsive need to have a hand in _everything_. He shot Eames a disgruntled look.

"Are you kidding me? We had to go to plan C. Do you know how long it's been since I had to resort to a third option?"

"Giving you flashbacks of working with Cobb, darling?"

"No," Arthur said, "we usually didn't have a solid plan going in... except for the last one."

The Fischer job, although both knew better than to ever mention it out loud. "Yes, well it's amazing what can be done with the threat of limbo over your head," Eames said.

Arthur started to reply, but was interrupted by his ringing phone. He pulled it out of his pocket and glanced down – and there was that flash of odd expression again. This time, he answered it with a quick, "Hello?"

There was a pause and Eames watched Arthur's eyebrows knit. "No, Rachel, slow down. I was too busy to—What—" Pause. "When?"

The last word came out flat, and Eames' ears picked up. Especially when Arthur jerked their car to the side of the road amidst the sound of beeped horns and waved fingers from the other motorists. Eames waved back, nonchalantly.

Arthur paid them no mind: just stared out into the middle distance, all focus on his conversation.

"Okay," he said at long last, and swallowed. "I'll get the next flight out. It'll probably be eight to ten hours. I'll call you when I land." He hung up and stared at the phone in his palm for a few moments.

"Is there a problem?" Eames asked, when Arthur said nothing.

"That was my sister."

Eames kept his voice neutral. "You have a sister?" Information was sacred in their line of business, and even though they had known each other for years and been sleeping together for almost six months, Arthur had never spoken of his family. Then again, neither had Eames.

It was telling how shaken Arthur was that he had let something so vital slip.

Arthur nodded, and without further comment he flipped the turn signal and merged again into traffic. He took the next exit, which happened to led them away from their shared hotel room and back in the direction of the airport.

"Family emergency, I take it?" Eames wheedled.

"Maybe. I don't know." Arthur's fingers tapped a jumpy rhythm on the steering wheel, but when he spoke again his voice was quiet. "She said that Tom – he's my brother – has been missing for three days."

That took Eames by surprise. He had been expecting something more mundane: the illness of a parent, or a death. An unexpected disappearance spoke of a whole host of dark things; especially in their line of work.

"It isn't like him?"

"No." Arthur flipped the signal again to merge into the next lane – an exit-only to the airport. His fingers drummed again and he blurted, "I've had a bad feeling the last few days. I thought it was this job, until now." And he cut Eames a narrow-eyed look, as if to dare him to laugh.

Eames (most graciously in his opinion) did not. Instead, he attacked the problem from a logical standpoint; one Arthur should appreciate. "You know I'm handy if you're in need of a backup, and I do possess a certain set of skills." He paused and added lowly, "I would never betray your family, darling. Even if things between us went sour, you know there are lines which I wouldn't cross."

"I know," he replied, eyes fixed steadily to the road. "But I can't just ask you to— this isn't a job. There's no pay and you don't have to do it. We can switch off at the airport and you can take the car back to the hotel. Or a taxi—"

"You don't wish for me to come along?" Eames asked, with practiced casualness.

Arthur opened his mouth, but then stopped himself and took a deep breath. "Having you there will be... awkward."

Eames would have been stung, but he sensed something else lingering behind his words. "I'm sensing there's a story in there."

"You don't really want to meet my family, do you?" Arthur said, not answering.

"Not really," Eames admitted. "Though it's mostly because I know I will someday have to return the favor. If _my_ family doesn't drive you away, it won't be for lack of trying on their part."

Arthur barked out a laugh. His tension eased slightly and the next glance he sent Eames' way was almost fond. "Come with me?" he asked.

"Of course," Eames replied.

* * *

They didn't speak on the matter again until later, after the tickets were secured. The price was gutting, but at least the flight was nonstop and would leave in two hours.

Waiting in the terminal was a bore. Eames tried to drag Arthur to the bar to loosen up, but Arthur simply shook his head and spent the next half-hour typing intently on his smart phone.

Finally, for lack of anything to do, Eames asked. "Tell me about Tom." He had decided to treat this as if it were a job, and any foreknowledge was forewarning. Besides, there were several things not clicking here. He had hardly ever seen Arthur anxious.

Arthur's fingers slowed on the smart phone. He looked up at Eames almost reluctantly. "What do you need to know?"

"Well, what sort of man is he? Any enemies?"

"No." He shook his head. "Tom always had more friends than enemies. He..." Arthur trailed off and swallowed, looking vaguely nauseous.

Now Eames was certain something was definitely going on. "Arthur?"

"He's my twin," Arthur said, suddenly, as if it were forced out of him.

"Really? Are you identical?"

Arthur nodded once and briefly closed his eyes. "We're mirror image twins. He's left-handed and I'm right-handed." He reached up and touched a small mole on the side of his neck. "This is on the other side, for him."

"Really?" Eames said again, thoroughly delighted. His imagination was suddenly taken of a vision of two Arthurs – both dressed in their dapper suit-vests and giving Eames that smirk that Arthur only had for him: the one which was half annoyance, half amusement, and all seduction.

Then his thoughts froze as the part of his mind not attached to his dick leapt to the real problem.

"Then the question is not how many enemies Tom may have, it's how many enemies you have."

Arthur had many, many enemies. Some of them were powerful. So did Eames, when it came to that, but he didn't have some unlucky bastard walking around sharing his face.  
"I told him to be careful," Arthur said, dully. "Told him never to mention me to people he doesn't trust – I think he and Rachel think I'm some sort of secret service agent."

So his siblings were unaware of dream sharing as well. Eames leaned back in his chair. "That does... rather complicate things."

"You don't think I've thought about that?" Arthur snapped.

Eames held up his hands. "I'm asking because I need to know."

But the anger seemed to drain from Arthur almost at once. He rubbed at his eyes. "Sorry," he muttered, and Eames was reminded that they had just got off a grueling job. The nearly seven hour flight ahead of them was not going to be fun.

Arthur suddenly stood. "I need a drink."

They both did.

  


* * *

  
As Arthur always insisted on contingency plans in case a job went bad, they both had their luggage pre-packed in the car. There was no need to call Yusuf or Ariadne to pick up their things from the hotel. Arthur carried with him the PASIV device at all times, which he chose to carry-on instead of check.

The flight was long and uneventful and Arthur should have _really_ known better than to drink anything Eames handed him as the plane was taking off. But, well, Eames had already noted he was too exhausted and anxious to be at the top of his game.

Shortly thereafter, Arthur had fallen asleep, his head resting on Eames' shoulder.

Eames smiled to himself and played with the little TV screen in seat in front of him to watch England lose sadly to France in the rugby World Cup.

Arthur woke roughly six hours later – snuffling slightly and blinking his eyes. He gave Eames an almost shy, embarrassed smile as he realized he had used him for a pillow – the smile faded away a moment later, though, when he put two and two together and picked up his water bottle.

"You asshole," he hissed.

"Don't tell me you didn't need it, Arthur," Eames replied, unrepentant.

Arthur glared at him and replaced the water bottle back in its cup and ran a hand over his hair – though not a single strand was out of place, for all he had been sleeping. "I slept on the job already," he reminded Eames, lowly.

Eames graced him with a knowing look. Dreamshared sleep was hardly the most restful and he knew for a fact that Arthur had not gotten very much actual sleep in the days leading up to their last job.

 _I had a bad feeling,_ Arthur had said in the car, and Eames wondered if that had something to do with it.

He nearly asked again about it, but at that moment the pilot's voice came over the speakers and announced they were coming in to land, and that the weather report for Los Angeles was slightly overcast with a high temperature of 85 degrees. The announcement was followed by a stomach-dropping sensation and an uncomfortable run of turbulence.

They landed, and as Eames didn't feel up to going through the extra custom's screening for international travelers, he used one of his favorite passports – a Mr. John Davis – and practiced his American accent, lightly flavored with the slow drawls of Louisiana with the woman checking over his papers.

Arthur shot him a bemused look afterwards and said, "You sound ridiculous."

"You're breaking my heart, darlin'." Eames replied, still in his southern accent, and threw an arm about Arthur's shoulders as they walked to the baggage claim. He could feel how tense the other man was – how he leaned away and not towards him. Eames dropped his arm and Arthur didn't comment.

They were just waiting for their luggage to appear on the carousel when Arthur's name was shouted from across the building. Eames saw Arthur take and release a deep breath as if to steady himself. Then he turned.

Two women were striding towards him – one was a teenager, maybe sixteen or seventeen, with shoulder length dirty-blonde hair and a confident step. Behind her was a very pretty brunette, closer to Arthur's age. Her eyes were wide and slightly startled.

Arthur smiled at the younger girl and greeted her first with a hug. "Hey Rachel... You've really grown."

Rachel grinned at him and pinched the fabric of one of his sleeves. "Thanks! Wow, these are some nice threads." Then she turned, indicating the brunette. "This is Autumn, Tom's girlfriend."

She and Arthur shook hands, though Autumn still had that slightly wide-eyed expression. "You look just like him," she said.

"I get that a lot," Arthur replied, a touch too smoothly, before gestured to Eames. "This is-"

"Charles Eames," Eames said quickly, before Arthur could make the mistake of identifying him by one of his fake passport names. He didn't know why he did it, exactly. Only that Arthur was letting him see a well guarded facet of his life, so it was only fair Eames be equally as candid. "Please, call me Eames."

He didn't look see the expression on Arthur's face, but sensed by his stillness that he was surprised. Autumn and Rachel's eyes fell to him – Rachel gave him a swift up and down as if assessing him for flaws.

"You're with Arthur?" she asked, putting a slight emphasis on the word, as if surprised. Then she grinned at her brother, not waiting for Eames' reply. "Is he working for the CIA, too?"

"I'm not in the CIA, Rachel," Arthur said, with the air of someone who's said that many times.

Rachel focused back on Eames, an intent gleam in her eyes that reminded him very much of Arthur. "So are you in the CIA – or what do they call it in England? The SAS?"

Eames put on his most charming smile. "If I told you I'd have to kill you, love."

"You," Arthur said, handing over Eames' bag from the carousel, "are not helping."

But Rachel was grinning. "Ohhh, Mom's just going to love him."

There was a story there, but Arthur did not dignify her comment with an answer. He turned to Autumn. "When did you last hear from Tom?"

She shook her head, sadness and worry darkening her eyes. "Four days ago, now. I keep trying to call his phone, but I just get his voice mail."

"The police won't do anything," Rachel added. "They made us wait forty-eight hours to file a report and then... they act like he's just skipped out of town or went on a bender somewhere. They aren't even looking!"

They wouldn't, Eames knew, other than to put out an alert for someone who matches Tom's description.

Arthur didn't seem surprised. "We'll check his apartment first. Maybe he's left something behind."

"I've already been there," Autumn said. "I have a key and let myself in, but there isn't anything."

Arthur didn't smile at her. His face had already slid into the professional mask Eames usually associated with him at his best... and his most dangerous. "My way of searching is a little more in depth."

"I _told_ you he was CIA or something," Rachel said, smugly.

* * *

Rachel offered to drive. "I have my permit now. I need the practice," but was thankfully ignored. Arthur wasn't sure he was used to this new, older version of his little sister. The last time he saw her, she had been at least four inches shorter and didn't have... breasts.

They piled into Autumn's SUV – a ninety's model, boxy looking Ford Explorer, which Autumn had to turn the key twice to get started.

Somehow Rachel had maneuvered it so that she sat with Eames in the back (to grill him, no doubt) and Arthur took the passenger's seat. He tried to keep half an ear on conversation behind him, but Eames seemed to be handling himself well. He could turn on the charm when he wanted.

Arthur still wasn't sure if bringing him here was a good idea, but he was grateful for his presence. With Eames by his side, Arthur could let himself pretend this was a job – it was less painful that way.

He caught Autumn giving him another sidelong glance, probably looking for the man she loved in him. Arthur caught her eye and smiled, briefly. She was pretty – beautiful, actually, although not his type.

"I'm in love," Tom had said to him one night, about ten months ago.

"Again?" Arthur rolled his eyes, and even though he was currently in Taipei and the phone's connection was crackly, his brother picked up on it.

"This one is different. She's the one, Arthur. I know it."

And judging by Autumn's puffy eyes and the way she couldn't stop glancing oddly at Arthur, she felt a lot for Tom as well.

"How did you two meet?" he asked.

"Job interview – we were applying at the same firm." Her chin quavered slightly as she smiled. "Neither one of us got the job, but we went out for coffee afterwards and hit it off from there. How did you meet... Eames?"

"Through work." They were on different teams, and the end result had been a lot of bullets and a client who had been willing to double-cross all of them to get the best price. Arthur, Mal, and Dom had come out of it alive and with a new contact for a talented forger. "I've known him for years, but we didn't hit it off until six months ago."

"It wasn't for my lack of trying," Eames piped up, from the back.

Autumn huffed a laugh. "You know, Tom would be talking about love and fate right about now..."

Arthur looked out the window. They had come off the freeway and were now sliding past familiar city streets, heading towards downtown. He wondered where his brother was now, and if he was in pain. "Yeah, he would," he said, his throat feeling a little thick.

* * *

  
Tom lived in an apartment building on the outskirts of Los Angeles – one of those areas still in flux from the recession: once urban and hip, but now encroached slowly by vacant businesses and seedy nightlife.

The apartment was on the third floor. Autumn did have a key and, after unlocking the front door, stepped aside to allow them in.

Eames stepped inside and blinked several times. He had expected something close to Arthur's tastes: while he had no real permanent place, he rented out already furnished apartments with clean lines and furniture that tended towards functional and expensive.

Tom, however, seemed to be a fan of IKEA, judging from the low futons and kitschy paper-lamp set in the corner. He had an eclectic decorative style with both prints of famous buildings set in cheap frames against the wall, and tacked up band posters.

"I take it he's a fan of The Smiths?" Eames asked, counting three posters among the living room wall alone.

Arthur shot him a look. "Hey, don't knock The Smiths."

"Wouldn't dream of it, Arthur," he replied, secretly delighted he had discovered yet another gem of knowledge.

Autumn strode in after them, her face pinched and unhappy, her arms folded almost protectively around her middle. "Nothing's moved... he hasn't been back since I was here last."

The room itself was a little disorganized, but there was no evidence of a struggle. Eames moved beyond the living room, noting a couple of dirty plates still in the sink: breakfast, it looked like. On a low shelf sat a picture frame: two teenagers in caps and gown with their arms about one another's shoulders. A high school graduation? The picture was taken from at least ten feet back and Eames could not tell from the grainy photo which one was Tom and which was Arthur. Only that they seemed happy, and close.

He glanced quickly at Arthur, and observed how he took in his brother's apartment – like a stranger come to visit. Eames suddenly doubted Arthur had ever been there before.

Arthur caught him watching, and with narrowed eyes and a jerk to his chin, indicated that Eames should get back to work – just like he would with any job. Only this just wasn't any job, was it?

Eames decided he would get to the bottom of it, but now was not the time. Instead, he turned to Autumn. "Tell me about the last time you saw Tom."

"I stayed the night here," she said, looking around the room as if she could find a sign of something she could have overlooked. "He made me breakfast, said he had an interview at Genesis Global," and she added, looking to Arthur, "He didn't like his job very much at Cipher Tech because he's been there two years without a raise. He kissed me goodbye, said he would meet me for lunch if he could and... I never saw him again."

"How was he that morning?" Arthur asked, moving to examine a calendar stuck to the wall. It was a month behind with nothing written within the squares.

She shrugged. "Normal. A little excited, maybe? Genesis is a big company. Tom was really hopeful he'd land it."

"I called Genesis yesterday," Rachel piped up from where she sat cross-legged on a futon, shamelessly going through her brother's mail. "The secretary said he didn't even show up."

Someone could have made the grab for him when he was heading over to the interview, Eames thought, but did not say. He could tell by the slight slump of Arthur's shoulders, though, that he was thinking the same thing.

"Okay," Arthur said, in a long exhaled breath and looked towards Autumn. "Is your cell phone on the same plan as Tom's, or is his separate?"

"No, we share the minutes," she said, uncertainly, and removed a slim phone from her purse before handing it over to him.

Arthur wasted no time removing the battery and locating the sim card. "I might be able to find something here. Eames, the laptop is in my pack in the car. The second large pocket. Could you...?" he didn't finish, but Eames understood.

"Of course," he answered, and smiled brightly at the two mystified girls before popping out.

When he returned a couple minutes later with the laptop in hand, Arthur was sitting at the kitchen – Autumn's sim card installed within his smart phone – and typing intently on the little device.

Eames headed towards the futon. "Scoot over, love," he said to Rachel, and took the mail from her. A bank statement would be very useful – especially if Tom had withdrawn a large sum of money or used his debit card recently.

Tom Hansen, the name on the envelopes read, and Eames got a bit of a jolt as he realized he was looking at Arthur's real last name. He was so used to seeing fictitious identities that he hadn't even bothered to look.

Arthur Hansen. Eames rolled the name around experimentally in his head, and decided he liked it.

"Do you think he's still alive?" Rachel asked, quietly so that Autumn who was hovering by Arthur's shoulder, could not hear.

Her face was so serious and... so mature, somehow, for her age, that Eames decided not to humor her. "I haven't a clue," he said, honestly. "But Arthur is a genius with this sort of thing. I'm certain he can find him."

"I've been afraid to ask," she admitted. "I don't know if they can still do that freaky twin thing but," she giggled nervously, "it would really come in handy right now."

"Twin... thing?" Eames wondered, keeping his voice casual.

"Yeah, he didn't tell you?" Rachel nodded and moved closer, taking him in her confidence. "When they were little, Tom went off biking, got lost and hurt his ankle. Arthur was home sick the whole day, but knew just when it had happened and told Mom where to find him. And when they were teenagers..." she hesitated slightly, "Well, we don't have the same dad," she glanced towards the kitchen, meaning her brother and herself. "Arthur and my dad never got along, and they got into a fight. Tom knew – he was working at Burger King, and just took off in the middle of his shift to come home and stop it." She glanced over again towards the kitchen, biting her lower lip. "But I guess it doesn't happen anymore. It didn't sound like Arthur had any idea when I called him."

"I don't know about that," Eames said, and would have told her of Arthur's 'feeling' except at that moment he heard Autumn swear, loudly, and Arthur's voice, loud over hers.

"Who's Summer Finn-Chethan?"

"I told you about Summer," Rachel called to Arthur before she and Eames went to join them in the kitchen – both Rachel and Autumn had dark, unhappy expressions. "She's his ex-girlfriend, a total bitch."

Arthur glanced sharply at her. "Rachel—"

"Well she is! You weren't there."

Eames could hear layers of meaning behind those words, but before Rachel could continue, Autumn spoke up, her voice tight.

"He's been talking to Summer?"

"Uh... yeah." Arthur cleared his throat. "There were two calls placed to Tom's phone," he said, bending slightly to squint at the screen. Eames suspected he was a little short-sighted, but Arthur would never admit to any weakness. "The first was at 3:05PM the day before he disappeared. It lasted five minutes. The second..." he trailed off for a moment, "was the last call made from the phone, four days ago at 10:25AM. It hasn't been used since."

Autumn turned away abruptly, looking out the window and the darkening sky with her arms crossed. Eames felt a little sorry for her – sorry for Tom as well, if it turned out all this was because he had been holding up in some sort of love nest with an old flame.

"He told me he was going to an interview," Autumn whispered.

Rachel looked between her an Arthur, "He was," she insisted, "I called Genesis, remember? They were expecting him. Autumn... he loves you."

"Eames," Arthur said, "did you get anywhere with the bank records?"

"Not yet—"

"Give them to me." Arthur held out a hand, nearly snapping for the laptop and the bank statement in an officious kind of way that Eames hated.

He forgave him a moment later when Eames handed the papers and computer over – Arthur's hands were trembling ever so slightly. While Arthur's face was cool, a blank professional mask, he was probably a torrent of emotions inside.

"I'll make something to drink, shall I?" Eames said, getting up from the kitchen table. He let his hand fall upon Arthur's shoulder, squeezing slightly, before he headed for the cupboard to look for anything edible.

Amusingly, Tom appeared to be a fan of black teas and had a large stockpile taking up an entire cupboard. Eames couldn't get Arthur to drink anything but coffee.

"His debit card hasn't been accessed for three days," Arthur said at last, after intense typing. "The last thing he bought was a coffee at Peets."

"You are really scary sometimes, you know that?" Rachel asked, eyeing her brother. "If I gave you my math teacher's name, what could you do with it?"

Arthur only flashed a quick, tired smirk and closed his laptop.

"So, what does that mean?" Autumn asked. "He hasn't used his card in three days because he won't or he... can't?"

Rachel shrugged and spoke, echoing very close to Eames' own thoughts. "Well if I were trying to get back together with someone, we'd be going out on dates and I would be buying her stuff..." she trailed off, and her shoulders slumped as she seemed to realize this good news wasn't really good news at all. "But, I'd rather find out he was with Summer than... in trouble. Sorry, Autumn."

Autumn just shook her head, dismissing it. "It's okay."

Rachel turned to Arthur. "So what do we do now?"

Arthur visibly hesitated, his eyes seeking out Eames'. There were a number of things they could do, Eames knew. Everything from legal to downright bloody. But this was Arthur's family, his brother's life possibly in the balance. He had to be the one to call the shots.

"Summer is our best lead," Arthur said. He reopened his laptop, typed for a few moments and wrote something down – an address. "I'll go talk to her."

"Ohhh," Rachel said, happily and reached over to prod at Autumn. "I'll hold her down and you kick."

Arthur shook his head. "No, we have to do this smart. I'm going in as Tom – she would be more willing to talk to him that way. And if he's already there..." he shrugged.

"Then I'm going with you," Autumn said, abruptly.

"That's probably not wise, pet," Eames said. "We don't know what this Summer could be involved in—"

She rounded on him, eyes snapping. "He's _my_ boyfriend. You two can play super spy agents if you want, but you're not shutting me out of this. I—I have to help."

Eames expected Arthur to argue, but he was all cool mask and closed expression. "Fine," Arthur said, shortly, and rose from his seat to walk into what looked like Tom's bedroom. The door closed carefully, but with the tension coiling around him it may as well have been a slam.

Eames busied himself boiling a pot of tea and putting the old tea-bags to soak. He heard the door open a few minutes later... and nearly burned himself when he turned to look at Arthur.

He had changed out of his clothes into some that were clearly his brother's – a dark green band T-shirt which clung a little tightly to his body. Jeans, also nicely fitted, and converse shoes. His hair was slightly wet, washed free of gel and hung loosely around his ears.

Eames's mouth went dry.

"Not bad," Autumn murmured, and Eames felt an unexpected stab of hot jealousy as she walked over to him. But it was only to tussle Arthur's hair. "He wears it messier," she explained, a little sheepish, before stepping back.

"And try to smile more," Rachel put in.

So of course, Arthur frowned at her. "You're staying here."

"No way!" she said, bristling. "He's my brother too!"

"We're only going in to talk. Eames is staying behind, as well."

Which was news to Eames. "Did it occur to you," he said, tersely, "that this could be a trap to lure you in? Those jeans fit you wonderfully Arthur, I do approve, but you can't hide a weapon with those. I will not allow you to go in unarmed."

Shock temporarily broke through Arthur's impersonal mask. " _You_ won't _allow_ me?" he asked, and Eames thought if he wasn't so taken aback, he would be dangerously pissed.

"Not without backup," Eames said, backpedaling only a little. "I'll wait behind in the car and watch your back. Is that fair?"

"And me," Rachel chirped.

"No," Arthur said. "Absolutely not."

Eames regarded the girl. "Can you shoot?"

"Sure," she replied, so easily it was almost certainly a lie.

"No," Arthur said, louder now, as if afraid no one was listening.

Autumn snapped. "We're wasting time. Rachel, if we let you come, do you promise to stay in the car no matter what?"

Rachel nodded vigorously and turned pleading eyes to her brother. "I promise not to get out of the car. C'mon, your boyfriend is like James Bond. I'll be fine."

Eames found himself grinning. "Oh, I do like her."

Arthur stared at each one of them in turn, and his lips pressed into a thin line as he seemed to realize he was outvoted.

"Fine. Let's just get this over with."

* * *

 


	2. Chapter 2

The address led them to a condominium building on the outskirts of Pasadena – a lovely seven story high-rise which had a wall of windows facing south to catch as much California sun as possible.

Arthur wondered if Tom still liked buildings in that style, or if he finally realized that the cooling bills at such a place would be inefficient, and the sun would be hellish in the morning.

Eames was driving – Arthur suspected it was some sort of alpha male need to control and protect what he could before Arthur went in. His words earlier still irritated him. _" I will not allow you to go in unarmed."_ As if Arthur was a complete idiot, as if he couldn't _protect_ himself. Who had saved who's ass during that fuckup in Bulgaria?

But of course he couldn’t bring that up – not in front of his sister and Autumn. So he let it go. For now.

It was almost eleven at night, and most of the parking spots directly in the building's shadow were taken. Eames found one meant for a compact, but managed to slide the boxy Explorer in with little problem.

Arthur unbuckled his seatbelt, his mind already ahead on the job, when a touch to his wrist stopped him.

"Keep safe, yeah?"

He met Eames' eyes, and saw real concern there. Almost unwillingly, Arthur felt the part of himself he kept incased in ice on jobs, thaw a little. "Take care of my sister," he replied, and let his fingers linger against Eames' hand – just for a moment. His skin was warm, and it struck Arthur at once that no matter what happened in the next few minutes, whether Tom was up there with his ex or not, Eames would be down here waiting for him.

It was... oddly soothing.

"The condo number is 712," Arthur continued, after a moment. "Keep an eye on the seventh floor. I'll flick the lights if we need backup."

"You guys don't have hidden microphones or something?" Rachel asked, from the back seat. She sounded almost disappointed.

Eames turned and flashed a smile at her. "No and sadly, I left my knife-flick shoes back at home."

Arthur averted his face to hide a smile. He was _not_ going to encourage him.

He and Autumn got out of the car and made their way to the building's front. It was warded by a locked door and keypad, but with so many condos Arthur took a chance that someone had a code of 12345. He was right, and they got in without problems.

Autumn was quiet as they rode the elevator – staring down at the floor and biting her lower lip. Arthur couldn't bring himself to blame her, really. She seemed like a nice woman – beautiful, smart, and no pushover.

He still hoped Tom was cheating on her. It was much better than the alternative.

When the elevator dinged open, Arthur caught her eye. "Ready to play the jealous girlfriend?" And he held out his hand.

A thin smile crossed her lips, and she straightened her shoulders as she nodded, taking his hand. Her palm was clammy with nerves, but her face was composed as they walked down the hallway, hand in hand.

Arthur let himself fall in the character of his brother: intentionally tensing the set of his shoulders and screwed his face into an annoyed scowl – not that it was hard. Tom would be pissed, if he were in this position; embarrassed and wanting to get this over with as soon as possible.

So when they came to the door marking condo 712, Arthur rapped sharply with his free hand and pressed the doorbell a few times in quick succession. If Tom was inside, he'd get a surprise. If he wasn't – well, Arthur had a story to lead into the interrogation.

"Summer!" he called, "Open up. It's me."

There was the sound of shuffling on the other side of the door. It opened a crack and Arthur got his first glimpse of Summer.

She was just as beautiful as Autumn in a way – darker hair, milky skin, and doeish blue eyes. She also scowled viciously at him.

"The hell, Tom?" she demanded, in a sleep raspy voice. "Do you know what time it is?"

It was only eleven, but her reaction alone told Arthur that Tom wasn't there and that she hadn't been expecting him.

Arthur shrugged a shoulder, feigning embarrassment. "Sorry, I just needed to talk to you about... the other day?" He glanced at Autumn, meaningfully. He may not be the extractor Cobb was, but he could get the message across when he needed.

Summer's eyes snapped to Autumn. She saw the way the other woman stood, hostile and clutching Arthur's hand so tightly it nearly hurt. Summer's mouth dropped slightly. "Are you kidding me?" she asked, and the door opened a few inches wider.

Summer was wearing loose pajama pants and a tightly fitting tank top – tight, as her stomach looked to be swollen the size of a basketball. She had to be at least seven months pregnant.

"I'm married," Summer said, flatly. "I don't want your boyfriend, and even if I _did_ , there isn't much I could do about it." She looked to Arthur. "Are we done now?"

"That's what I kept telling her!" Arthur whined, and turned to Autumn. "Babe, there's nothing going on between us."

Autumn was impressively quick on the uptake. "I don't believe you," she snapped, releasing their joined hands. "I'm not an idiot, Tom. I saw the cell phone records!"

"I already told you!" Arthur looked again to Summer, widening his eyes in his best 'Help me out here!' expression.

Summer's mouth twitched. She looked like she was enjoying watching 'Tom' squirm, but she said, "I just called because I wanted to know if he would interview with—" she stopped as a low baby's cry was heard from inside. Summer sighed, "Look, why don't you come in? I have to check on my son."

She stepped aside to let them through, and quickly bustled off to a side-room, presumably towards her child.

Autumn's brows furrowed and as soon as Summer was out of sight. She spoke in a low undertone to Arthur. "Shouldn't we just tell her what's going on?"

But Arthur just shook his head. The condo was nice – functional and plainly furnished, but without a hint of personality to it. It was almost obsessively clean, too, as if taken care of by a professional. The hairs on the back of his neck rose, although he couldn't say why. For good or ill, Summer had a vibrant personality. Her living space should reflect that. It didn't.

Something was off.

Before he could say anything, Summer bustled in with a sleepy toddler on her hip – it was a surprise she could fit it there at all with the size of her stomach. "Drinks?" she asked. "I don't have any alcohol right now, but I got water. My husband is at the store, grocery shopping." She looked almost challengingly at Autumn.

When Autumn met her gaze without flinching and shook her head, Summer's eyes narrowed. "You seem like a nice _girl_ ," she said, emphasizing the last word, "And I still care about Tom as a friend. So when he told me he felt bad because you were working and he still couldn't get a decent paying job, I thought I would help him out. My husband knows some people who knows some people who were looking for an trained architect." She turned to Arthur, "How did it go, by the way? The interview?"

"Fine, I think," he replied, hedging. A feeling a dread started to curdle his stomach. "They didn't really say."

Summer's mouth twitched again. "No," she said, "I guess they wouldn't."

There the sound of a key scraping at the front door. It opened, a man carrying a paper groceries in one hand and already speaking, "They were out of ginger-ale, but I got the diapers—"

He stopped, suddenly, as he saw there were others in the room. His eyes widened in fear, and the bag dropped and hit the floor with a crunching sound.

"Oh shit. Arthur?"

It was Nash.

Ryan Nash, who he knew from background checks went by his mother's maiden name while working in dream share. His real surname was, fuck, Chethan, now that he thought about it.

Why didn't he see it? Even the apartment was too clean and impersonal to be anything other than a temporary rental. Why didn't he _see_?

Nash reached behind himself for his waistband. But Arthur was already moving the second he recognized the face. When Nash brought the gun around, Arthur slammed the full weight of his body into him.

He heard Nash's breath whoosh out as he was driven against the closed door. The gun fell from his hands and clattered off in another direction.

Nash was a dirty fighter, and had strength borne of fear – reaching up to gouge at Arthur's eyes. Arthur turned his head away in time and evaded one of Nash's kicks to more or less accidently knee the other man, hard, in the groin.

Nash wheezed again, his face going red, and Arthur was able to immobilize one of his wrists and bar his forearm against his throat.

Somewhere in the distance, he could hear Summer was screaming.

"Call 911!" Nash rasped.

Arthur turned, seeing Summer reach for the phone on the counter. "Don't touch that!" he barked. Amazingly, Summer hesitated – at least long enough for Autumn to unfreeze and snatch it up first. Autumn held the weapon like she had no idea what she was doing, but it was good enough for now.

Arthur tuned back to Nash. "Where is he?" he demanded. "What did you do with him?"

Nash made a sputtering sound, choked of air. Summer was shrilling, "Ohmygod, ohmygod, what are you doing?! Let him go!" and the baby was starting to wail. Someone was going to call the police soon with this noise.

Arthur grabbed Nash by the front of his windbreaker and more or less hauled him away from the door and tossed him, still gasping, to the living room floor. "Talk!"

"Tom! What the fuck!" Summer shrieked, and Arthur got the feeling that if she hadn't been juggling a toddler she would have been attacking him, too.

"Tom?" Nash rasped, a hand to his throat. His eyes went widely from Arthur to his wife and back. " _This_ is your friend? Shit, Summer! Do you know who this is?"

Arthur had had enough. "Tom's my brother," he told Summer.

"But... " Summer made a small sound in the back of her throat. "You look just like him."

He didn't dignify that with an answer, instead taking one menacing step towards Nash. "You have five seconds to tell me what you did with him."

The other man shrunk back, holding up a hand. "Look man, look... look... this is my family, here. I know you got a beef with me, but don't do this in front of my wife. Not in front of my kid."

Which Arthur felt was a bit rich considering Nash had tried to pull a gun on him only a few moments before.

"No one is going to hurt anyone!" Autumn broke in, sounding shocked. "Just tell us where Tom is. Please," she added, as if she weren't currently holding a gun.

Nash swallowed. "I... I never met the guy. I didn't know he was your brother, Arthur. You have to believe me. Summer said she knew someone who was an architect who would be good in the business, and I gave her contact info to give to him. That's all, I swear."

Arthur glanced at Summer who was nodding emphatically. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she clutched her baby to her, turning his head away so he didn't have to see his daddy being threatened.

"Whose team?" Arthur asked Nash.

"Muir and Carson."

Arthur was suddenly very glad – and sorry – he did not have the gun. He must have staggered because suddenly he found himself gripping the granite counter island separating kitchen from living room, using it to hold himself up. "You gave Tom to Muir and Carson," he repeated, dumbly.

No one spoke. They all watched him, though, like someone who would watch a dangerous animal.

"They're not bad guys," Summer said, breaking the silence "I wouldn't just... my husband's he's known them for years."

Nash, however, seemed to have regained some of his confidence at seeing Arthur's shock. He sat up, still rubbing his throat and threw Arthur a dirty, almost contemptuous smirk. "Muir and Carson are professional when they want to be, sure," he agreed, "and if Tom was smart they would have treated him right. But Arthur here is Dom Cobb's point man. And Cobb personally screwed Muir out of two jobs, last I heard." He barked out a laugh. "That must have been a surprise when your brother showed up looking just like you. They probably shit themselves at first," his smirk grew lecherous, "But I bet they figured it real quick. They probably took him apart nice and slow."

Arthur started towards him, but Autumn got there first. A well placed kick by her point-shoed pumps and Nash was bent over, gasping again.

"Shut up!" she shrieked, and pointed the gun although it wavered wildly.

"Bitch!" Nash gasped.

Arthur held out his hand. "Autumn, give me the gun."

The look she threw him, though, was haunted and wide-eyed. He didn't plan on actually shooting Nash, although she clearly didn't trust him not to do that. Not anymore. When her hesitation became too long he dropped his hand and stepped back.

"Where are they working out of?" he asked.

Nash shook his head. "Don't know."

Arthur opened his mouth, but Summer was quicker.

"Ryan!" And when Arthur turned to look at her he saw with surprise that she had gone pale, her lips pressed into a thin, trembling line. She really hadn't known, Arthur realized, she probably thought she was doing Tom a favor introducing him to dream share.

"I don't know!" Nash insisted. He sat up again, wincing. "Look, I don't even go into the field anymore. I got kids, you know? I just work for Hoshi on the side – he's the local chemist in LA. I delivered somnacin to Carson in a fucking Taco Bell parking lot, alright? He wanted to know if I'd want to be an architect for a three man team. I said no, but that I knew of a guy who might if they were willing to train him up."

Arthur looked at Autumn who was watching Nash with a blank, stony face. He didn't know how much of this she actually understood, but at least she wasn't interrupting.

"Who's the mark?" Arthur asked.

"Why would they tell me?" Nash asked. "Look, none of this is my fault. I'm not the dumbass who didn't tell my brother to avoid this crap."

The words struck home and Arthur had to grit his teeth hard not to give any visible reaction. He looked at Summer. "Do you still have the contact numbers?"

She nodded, a bit teary-eyed and retreated to one of the bedrooms. She returned a moment later, less one toddler and carrying small slip of paper. "Tom told me that he had another interview the same day with Genesis Global. Maybe—"

"He never showed up." It was hard to say the words – his throat suddenly felt too tight, and Arthur had to look away from the pity in her eyes. He focused again on Nash.

"Don't think I forgot how you tried to sell me and Dom out. If I found out you held anything back, or you tipped off Muir and Carson that I'm coming, I will _personally_ deliver you to Cobol. Do you understand?"

Nash's eyes flashed in hatred but he nodded. Still, he always had to have the last word. "Interesting how a few months after, Fischer-Marrow dissolved. Paved the way for Saito, didn't it?"

Summer gave a little gasp. "Wait, he's _that_ Arthur?"

The next time, Arthur didn't care how tight his jeans fit. He was bringing a gun. He didn't answer Nash, only nodded to Autumn. Together, they walked out.

She was ominously silent as they hurried down the corridor – Nash's gun still in her hand. Arthur wondered if he should just take it from her, or if she planned on shooting him... and he found that for once he didn't care. Maybe he deserved it if she did.

The chances were very high that he had gotten his own brother killed.

* * *

  
"All right," Autumn said, once the elevator doors closed. Her voice shook slightly as she turned to him, though she held Nash's handgun loosely at her side. "What was that about? Are you... drug dealers?"

"Not here," Arthur said, with a pointed glance towards the camera in the upper corner.

But Autumn didn't seem to hear him. "Why do those guys need architects, and... what did that guy call you? A point man? What the hell is going on, Arthur? What did you get Tom into?"

Arthur closed his eyes. "I didn't get him into anything." But that wasn't the whole truth and he knew it. Dream share was a treacherous business, which was why he worked only for the best. His reputation was widely known and he knew, in theory, that it could someday come back on Tom, but he had never truly expected it. Not like this.

Nash had reached for his gun the second that he recognized Arthur. Muir and Carson had even more reason to hate him.

Everything he had been holding back since he first got the call from Rachel – all of the fear and anxiety for Tom, disgust, anger with the knowledge that _he_ had screwed up in a way that he could never take back -- all of it seemed to hit him at once.

"SHIT!" He lashed out, striking the reflective elevator door hard enough to hurt. It wasn't enough. Arthur kicked it, too. His own reflection – Tom's reflection.

And that had always been the problem, hadn't it?

Autumn jumped out his outburst, but didn't say anything. He shook his head, running his hands through his loose hair and breathing hard. When the elevator door opened and Arthur turned to her again: she was watching him with confusion but not alarm.

"What do you know about dream share?" Arthur asked, roughly, as they walked out.

She started to shake her head, then stopped, frowning. "I heard some of the execs in my company use it – lucid dreaming? They use it to preview buildings like 3-D CAD software."

They reached the front door to the building, and Arthur gave a wave to the parking lot to show Eames that everything was okay. Then he gestured for Autumn to follow him around the corner to a deserted free smoking area. He _couldn't_ have this conversation in front of Rachel.

"It can be used that way, but there are other applications," he said. "When you share a dream with someone you're dipping into their subconscious. Once an idea is conceived, the mind never forgets, and if you do it right... it's possible to find that idea and steal it."

Autumn stared at him. "What are you saying?"

"I specialize in corporate espionage," Arthur said, flatly, unflinching. "It usually doesn't hurt anyone except in the wallet, and it pays me very well in return. I—I'm not a good person and accidents happen, but I try to make sure that the mark never even knows they've been hit until their competitor gets a leg up. In and out, and it's _clean_. But Muir and Carson, the men Tom went to meet..." he shook his head, swallowing down the hot taste of bile that rose in his throat. "They're mind-rapists. They specialize in breaking their marks down, even those who armed their mind against them—"

He had to stop because Autumn sagged abruptly, leaning against the wall. "Oh my God," she breathed. "I thought that Summer's husband was just being a dick when he said... and they would have thought Tom was you..." Her eyes focused on him and he saw the moment the connection was made. Disbelief and then disgust flashed across her face. "You never told him any of this, did you?"

"Tom's an entry level architect. He's not the sort of talent that would normally attract—"

"You let him walk around, _knowing_ there were people who wanted to hurt you, and you said nothing!" Autumn's voice rose into a shriek and Arthur looked away, fists clenched.

"Yes," he bit out.

Autumn drew herself up and for a moment Arthur thought she was going to slap him. But something seemed to stop her. She looked at the gun in her hand, made a noise in the back of her throat and walked briskly over to a nearby garbage can to toss it away, rubbing her palms on her thighs afterwards as if to rid herself of the feel of it.

"Well?" she demanded. "What are you going to do? How are you going to fix this?"

He was still breathing hard, he realized, and clutching his loaded die although he couldn't remember taking it out of his pocket. It felt like he could hardly take in air – his chest was too full of self directed hatred. "I'll find him," he said, and it was a promise. "I'm not going to stop until I can bring him home to you." Even if it was only his body.

Autumn shook her head and reached up to angrily brush a tear away. "Can you do it without my car? I... I can't even look at you right now."

"I can call a cab."

She started to walk away, but then stopped. "I won't tell Rachel," she said. "She looks up to you and it would break her heart."

Arthur said nothing, and she walked back towards the car without another word.

There was a bench for smoking near by and he sat on it, letting his die fall – it landed on three, just like he knew it would. He'd had the piece since he was fifteen or so, bought on a family trip to Las Vegas right before his mother remarried – Tom had the other, or he had assuming he hadn't misplaced it. Arthur's was weighted to land on a number three or below. Tom's landed on four or up.

After Las Vegas, everything had gone to hell.

He heard Eames approach before he saw him. He was carrying both of their bags on Arthur's roller, and the PASIV, but didn't say anything as he came to sit next to him, throwing an arm about his shoulders.

"Don't," Arthur muttered, but couldn't bring himself to pull away. He didn't know what Eames knew, what Autumn had told him before she'd kicked him out of her car as well, and couldn't bring up the energy to care. "I don't deserve your sympathy."

Eames huffed and pressed his lips briefly against Arthur's temple.

Somehow, though, Arthur found himself resting his head on Eames's shoulder.

They didn't move from that spot for a long time.

 

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

Five minutes after Arthur and Autumn had disappeared into the building's front door, Eames was considering the merits of abandoning the car all together and going in after them. Arthur would no doubt be angry, but he could handle Arthur's anger.

He caught himself drumming fingers on his knee and forced his hand to lie flat, but his mood must have been catching for Rachel sighed loudly from the back seat.

"How long do you think they'll take?" she asked.

Eames' eyes had not wavered from the seventh floor window. "That would depend on many things. I'll give it a half hour before I become concerned."

Rachel sighed again, all teenager, even though she showed herself oddly mature for her years – Eames thought that Arthur must have been very much the same way, when he had been her age.

"I don't like this," Rachel said. "Anything can be happening up there."

"That, my dear, is why I loathe stakeouts," Eames admitted. "I prefer to be in the middle of things myself."

There was a curious silence from the back and Eames flicked his eyes away from the window to see Rachel bite her lip.

Her next words were spoken with a little too much forced levity, as if she were working to keep it casual. "We could play the truth game to pass the time. You know, I ask a question and you ask a question..."

Eames couldn't help it. He barked a laugh. "And what happens if I'm unwilling to answer?"

"Then I get to ask two questions." Her smirk was nearly malicious. It was Arthur's smirk, and Eames found himself a little charmed even though he knew this could lead nowhere good. Well, if she asked anything uncomfortable he could always lie.

"Go on then," he said, indulgently, returning to gaze at the unblinking wall of windows.

"How did you and Arthur meet?"

"Through work," Eames grinned at the memory. "Though we were on different sides at the time."

"Different sides of what?"

His grin grew wider. "I thought your rules specified one question per turn?"

Rachel scowled and he nearly laughed again. "Tell me about Tom," he said. "Is he very much like Arthur?"

"Yes and no," she answered, after a moment of thought. "He's not as serious, I guess. Arthur likes to pretend he doesn't have emotions, and Tom.... He must have watched _The Graduate_ a hundred times because he thinks it's romantic." She made a face. "No offense, but no one expected Arthur to be the gay one."

Eames thought of the graduation picture he'd seen in the apartment – the two brothers, grinning, an arm looped about each shoulder. He had a feeling that something had distanced them. Could that be it?

"Most gay men I've met don't act the stereotype," he replied in gentle rebuke.

"I know, I know. My turn again. What were you on different sides of when you met?"

He met her eyes in the reflection of the rearview window, smiling. "Pass."

"What? No fair!" she squawked, but then brightened. "I get two questions then. Okay, how long have you known him?"

He thought about it. "Close to five years."

"Great." She leaned forward, intent. "Then tell me what was so important he couldn't come home two and a half years ago."

Two and a half years ago? "I don't take your meaning."

Rachel made an annoyed sound in the back of her throat. "When she," and she flipped a hand over in the direction of the building, meaning Summer, "broke Tom's heart he was... really messed up over it. He only remembered the good parts of the relationship, you know? Not how she _actually_ treated him. Well, his friends called me because they were so worried about him, and I called Arthur. And do you know what he said? He said he couldn't come, and that Tom would get over it. Then he hung up, and _I_ had to do all the work putting Tom back together. So I wanna know what was so important he couldn't come back for his own twin brother." She seemed a little winded by the end of this, and sat back as she finished, arms crossed, and clearly annoyed all over again.

Eames knew Arthur could be a cold-hearted bastard at times, but he suspected in this case he may have had his reasons. "I can only guess," he warned, and waited for Rachel's nod to continue. "Right around that time Arthur's best friend – the man who was mentoring him – his wife committed suicide, very suddenly. Arthur's friend was suspected of her murder." He paused, weighing his words carefully, wary of giving too much away. "Arthur dropped everything to come to his aid – he put his reputation and life on the line, in many cases. Had it been me in his position, I'm not certain I would have done the same."

"Oh," she said quietly, a whisper. "What happened?"

"Eventually, his friend was cleared of all charges." Eames nearly smiled, remembering Cobb's shocked, almost glazed look in the airport after the Fischer job. "But I guarantee he wouldn't have gotten there without Arthur's assistance." He sighed. "Try not to be too hard on him, pet. He's the most loyal man I know."

Rachel started to speak, but stopped as a light came on in the seventh story window. It stayed bright, however, without sign of flicker.

And ten minutes later, while Rachel was dutifully reciting her grades (Eames had tried to find a way to lighten the mood somehow) Arthur and Autumn walked out from the building's entrance.

They were too far away for Eames to see their expressions clearly, but Arthur's body language was tense – upset. Before Eames could do more than notice, Arthur glanced his way and gave a short wave, steering Autumn around the corner of the building.

"What was that about?" Rachel asked.

Eames wasn't sure, but he suspected it wasn't a precursor for anything good. Still, it wouldn't to do upset Rachel. "Was that officially your question?" he asked, tone light.

"No!"

Long story short, Autumn returned alone, her expression so dark that Eames knew something must have happened. She preceded then to politely, but firmly kick him out of the car with just his and Arthur's luggage in tow.

Arthur, when Eames found him, was the very picture of dejection. And although Eames would never admit it within his hearing, it did frighten him a little. Arthur was as tenacious as he was tough. The man didn't give up – not when turned around in a maze in an unbreakable mind, not when he was sick and exhausted and there were assassins on his hounding his trail, not even when his best friend had betrayed him and he was staring the threat of limbo straight in the face.

Eames dearly wanted to demand answers, but he held his tongue and offered comfort as best he could. And as they waited for the taxi to arrive, Arthur explained in a flat monotone what information he'd received on Tom's whereabouts.

"I see," Eames said, after Arthur was done. It was almost certainly the perfect worst-case scenario, then. For once, he wasn't sure quite what to say. So he approached the problem optimistically. "I've never worked with Carson or Muir. If they're in need of another team member, I should be able to slip in..."

Arthur had pulled away as he spoke, but still sat next to him, staring at his own clasped hands. "That will be a little too convenient, don't you think?"

"Give me some credit darling," Eames managed a smile. "I wouldn't be going in as myself."

"Carson has some skill as a forger." But it was more of an observation than an objection. The shock was wearing off, Eames thought. Arthur was coming back online.

"They don't have the best reputation in the business," Eames mused, watching Arthur carefully for reaction. Most people found Muir's blood thirstiness objectionable, and Carson was nearly as bad. "It would make it hard to acquire talent. They may not ask as many questions."

Arthur glanced at him. "They're sadistic, not stupid. I can't lose—" he bit off the rest of what he was going to say going to say, shaking of his head. "It doesn't matter. We have to find them first."

Eames would have replied, but yellow cab chose that moment to turn into the parking lot, and effectively cut short their conversation.

 

* * *

  
Eames opened his eyes and experienced a wholly unpleasant jolt as his vision swam into focus on an unfamiliar cream colored ceiling... and he hadn't a clue where he was. His hand shot to his pocket – his trousers were still on, but unbuttoned, and he was hampered by what looked like a hotel coverlet thrown over him to keep him warm.

That realization gave him a pause long enough for his mind to unfog and flick back through his memories. He remembered riding the cab with Arthur. He had signed them into a nearby hotel using one of his favorite fake passports: Mr. Hugh Jorgan. Jet lag, it seemed, finally caught up with him and Arthur had told him to get some sleep, but he was determined to stay up and call some of his contacts. He remembered sitting on the couch to do... something. Arthur had handed him a glass of water.

Eames lifted his head to see Arthur sitting at the little writing desk across the room, tapping away at his laptop. Eames knew he hadn't made a sound, but Arthur glanced over his shoulder as he said, "If you fell for your own trick, you were too tired to help."

Grumbling, Eames shoved the coverlet off himself and made a point to reach for his totem – more out of spite at this point, really, for he felt sure he was awake. The poker chip felt true and he said, "How long was I out?"

"Only three hours."

Which made it about four o'clock in the morning, local time. The king sized bed in the center of the room was calling to him, and it was an effort of will to get himself upright again and stumble into the bathroom to brush his teeth. He must have fallen asleep with his mouth open because his own mouth tasted horrible.

"Any news?" he called, after his necessaries were done and he'd splashed some water in his face.

"The contact number led to a prepaid cell phone. It was used twice: once to receive a call from Nash and once from Tom. It was used in public places, away from wherever they're working. They must have turned the phone off, or destroyed it, because none of the cell phones are triangulating to the SIM." Arthur's voice was cool and remote. He had once again slipped into his professional mode, and while it was a far cry from the stricken shadow he was before, Eames wasn't sure that was healthy either.

Arthur continued, "I called Hoshi, the chemist, but he only supplies remotely. He doesn't know where Muir's team was working, but I made sure he'll give me a call if he hears from them. There's been no contact through any of the usual third party dealers. No large corporate conventions or visitors of note to the area in the next few days..."

"Have you called Saito?" Eames asked, padding over. "I know he likes to keep a finger in every pie."

Arthur nodded, not looking from the screen. "He's in late meetings until seven. I left a message."

Saito was no doubt gleefully divvying up the remains of Fischer-Morrow between his company and his lesser competitors, Eames thought. He glanced over Arthur's shoulder to see what he could be doing, and stilled in surprise.

"Why Mexico, darling?"

"There haven't been any John Does found in Southern California, Nevada, or Arizona matching Tom's description in the last week," Arthur intoned, clicking through incredibly gruesome images in law enforcements' files. He paused on one for moment, too decayed to be unidentifiable, and read through the height and weight details before dismissing it and moving on. "Mexico is the next likely choice."

Eames had to fight the desire to grab the top of his laptop and shut it down. "For god sakes, I could have done this."

"I can do it." He paused at another likely picture, but then clicked on.

"It doesn't mean you should."

Arthur didn't reply, but he did stop clicking – the screen landed on a bloated man who was definitely not Tom.

"Arthur," Eames said. "You've gone over the likely paths tonight. Come to bed, please. There's nothing to be gained by further torturing yourself."

He still didn't answer, but he didn't object as Eames slowly reached across him to close the laptop. It clicked shut with a strange finality.

"They would have dumped the body locally anyway," Arthur muttered, his shoulders drooping. "Then probably called me or Dom to gloat."

"I can think of several reasons of why they would wish to keep him alive, for now," Eames said, but didn't elaborate. Every scenario didn't bode well for Tom, and most of those didn't for Arthur as well.

"Me too," Arthur admitted, rubbing absently at his left wrist. He stood and turned – his eyes were shadowed with stress and lack of sleep. "Bed?"

"Darling," Eames purred. "I never thought you would ask."

Eames had meant it as a joke – exhaustion and pictures of decaying, unidentified bodies would put many a man off, but when he had turned off the lights in the room, shed his clothes and crawled under the covers (Arthur had taken it upon himself to remake the bed. He had a quirk of being unable to fall asleep under messy blankets) he felt Arthur's hands, hot and insistent on him.

Arthur's lips pressed against his own, seeking, and there was such desperation to the touch – hurried and almost anxious and _nothing_ like his usual self – that Eames pulled away, grabbing Arthur's wrist to stop him from reaching lower.

"Are you all right?" Eames asked.

It was dark in their room. He could only see Arthur as a shadowed outline, shaking out his hand. "I'm fine," he said. "I just want—I need to forget for awhile."

"Arthur." He slid his hand up to cup his jaw. Arthur's skin felt warm, nearly feverish, and Eames wondered at the fact that he would only allow his weaknesses to show in the dark.

 _I'm falling for an emotionally constipated man._ Eames reflected as he leaned in to kiss Arthur again.

And he wouldn't have it any way, really.

Eames' body was much quicker to respond, after that. Gently, firmly, he maneuvered the other man to sit up and placed Arthur's hands to the headboard above his head. "These stay here," he said, his voice low and dark. He heard Arthur suck in a breath and felt him nod, almost shakily.

"Hurry."

He wanted to do nothing of the sort, but relationships were about compromise and Arthur was leaning back, gripping the headboard behind him with his legs open so invitingly that Eames had no problem bowing his head and taking Arthur into his mouth.

Arthur's orgasm came only a few minutes later – he'd always had a little bit of a hair-trigger when there was any bondage, real or implied, involved. And Eames might have teased him a little for it, if not for the fact that his own dick was rock hard, heavy and dripping with precum. He reached down and palmed himself off in a few hard strokes as Arthur lay, sweating and panting and beautiful under him.

In the clean-up and afterglow that followed, as his body cooled and his heart rate returned back to normal, Eames could feel the other man still lying awake beside him. Could almost hear the gears still turning in Arthur's head.

"I'm sixty-fifth in line of succession to the British throne," Eames blurted, at once.

He felt Arthur tense next to him. "What?"

"I'd have to off both of my brothers to get there, of course." Eames shifted to his back, grinning up into the darkness. He would have liked to see Arthur's face, but could imagine it very well. "My mother wanted me to go into the church – it's traditional for the youngest son."

"You would have been horrible as a priest," Arthur said after a stunned moment, but there was a bare hint of laughter in his voice.

"Why, thank you."

Arthur shifted to his side, facing him. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Should I be ever arrested or linked to my activities, it would be quite the scandal," Eames mused, out loud. "I may be only sixty-fifth, but those are rather close circles. Embarrassments of that caliber tend to follow a family for generations." He turned as well and saw Arthur's outline in the dark, the glint of his eyes.

"It's not the same as—"

"I'm telling you because you're not the only who's played Russian Roulette with their family. But darling, I know the measures you took to avoid this from happening."

"You ran a background on me?"

"No more thorough than the one you ran on me."

Arthur huffed. "And?"

"I found nothing. Arthur Hansen's identity is quite secure."

"It's been a long time since I heard that last name," Arthur muttered, but seemed to settle and relax, one arm thrown proprietarily across Eames' waist. Eames was starting to drift off when he heard Arthur's voice again, sounding drowsy and much more relaxed than he'd heard in days.

"So are you a Lord or an Earl?"

"I am a third son. My millions are self made, thank you." It came out a little more primly than Eames meant it to, but Arthur snorted in something very close to laughter and ducked his head against him.

Eames hesitated before he spoke again, but he was not above striking when the iron was hot. "Were you and Tom close?"

"Very." Arthur was silent for so long that Eames thought that would be the entire answer. Then Arthur said, "Our mother remarried when we were teens... and my step-dad and I didn't get along."

"Just with you?"

"He didn't like Tom either, but he _really_ hated me, " Arthur admitted, and there was a hint of dark amusement there. Somehow Eames had no doubt Arthur had been the harder of the twins to get along with. Possibly on purpose. "Then, when I was sixteen, my step-dad caught me in bed with another boy from school."

Arthur didn't elaborate, but Eames remembered Rachel's words from earlier. " _Tom knew – he was working at Burger King, and just took off in the middle of his shift to come home and stop it..."_

"What happened?" Eames asked, although he already had a good guess.

The arm Arthur had thrown about his waist tightened briefly as he shrugged, then relaxed. "My step-dad and I got in a fight. It had been coming for awhile, I guess, and I thought I could kick his ass. I was wrong. Tom... he came home and broke it up before it got bad, and my step-dad kicked me out of the house." He paused, then said, bitterly. "My mom took her husband's side."

"Tom came with me, even though he didn't have to," Arthur went on, and his voice was distant as he thought back to another time. Another place. "He didn't even know I was gay until that day. He just... it didn't matter to him, you know? We crashed at some friends houses for a few weeks, but it wasn't fair to Tom, and he wouldn't leave me so... We went back. I played _nice_." He sighed. "But there was no way my parents were going to support both of us though college... I knew I was dragging Tom down. So I enlisted, instead."

Eames had long suspected that was how Arthur had been introduced into dream share. It had been much the same for him, really. Only when he had gone into service to escape his family, his father's influence had assured him a higher entry position than 'grunt'.

"Navy?" Eames teased, and received a sharp pinch under his ribs for it.

"Marines," he corrected, with no small amount of pride. Then he hesitated. "My mom apologized a few years ago, but...."

"The damage had long been done?"

He felt Arthur shift as he nodded. "And when I got out of the service, Tom had a different life. I was different, too. It was easy to stay away, at that point." He yawned, his voice lowering to a murmur as he started to slip off to sleep. "Visit for holidays... birthdays."

Eames had a vague urge something unpardonably sappy, that he liked Arthur as he was, that his family seemed like a nice lot, or at least his sister did. That life was short and months so easily slipped into years without contact. That he should try to rebuild bridges, and even if it was painful... Eames would be there for him.

But sleep was weighing heavily upon him, and Arthur had gone quiet, his breathing deep and even.

They were both asleep a few minutes later.

 

* * *

  
Eames woke later in the morning to the sound of his cell phone buzzing on the nightstand. Blearily, looking around to see Arthur still asleep, he flipped it open and answered in a gravelly voice, "Hello?"

"Mr. Eames," answered a solemn voice on the other end. "I may have some news of interest to you."

It was Saito.

Eames was aware of Arthur shifting beside him, coming awake and tilting his head to listen closely to the conversation. Eames put a finger to his lips to keep the other man from speaking.

"I'm listening." Could he possibly want another job, another inception? After the hell Saito went through to complete the first one?

"I received a message from Arthur. He wanted to know if I was aware of any activity, major corporate or _otherwise_ in Southern California." He enunciated the word slightly, to mean dream share.

Eames felt his eyebrows rise. "That sounds like something Arthur would do," he said. "Why are you calling me, not him?"

There was a slight pause from the other line. "I wanted to test... a theory. I presume Arthur is nearby?"

Arthur mouthed a curse. Eames knew how he felt: it wasn't that he objected to Saito knowing – or suspecting – their relationship. It was that such knowledge could be a liability in the wrong hands. Eames kept his voice casual as he replied, "Is this why you called? The fact that Arthur and I are fucking is hardly news to me."

Saito laughed, a bassy rumble. He quickly sobered, though, and said, "Three days ago my head of security was alerted to the possibility of a threat against myself by my competitors. It seems there is a team who has been hired with the express purpose of being able to break into a militarized mind. Your Arthur asked if there was any activity in Southern California." Saito paused and Eames could easily imagine his shark-like smile as he said, "I will arrive in Los Angeles tomorrow to sign paperwork to acquire Petrox Green Energy company."

"That's rather convenient timing." Eames snapped his fingers, but Arthur was already digging around in his suitcase and a moment later had put a blank notepad and a pen in front of him. Eames wrote down Petrox Green and underlined it. "Who else knows of your schedule?"

"Select members of my security team, Petrox's board of directors, and now you."

"It sounds like someone on the board doesn't approve of the takeover."

"Most of the board does not." Saito agreed. "May I ask, what is your interest here?"

Eames was too practiced of a liar to give anything away. "We have been hired by the family of a missing architect. We believe he's been taken by people who have the same skills your head of security warned you about."

"Then it would appear we have the same interests." Saito was all pleasantries. "I would like to hire you and Arthur as additional consultants to my security team. You would, of course, have access to my resources."

"That sounds reasonable." But Eames wasn't in the mood to let Saito off that easily. If the businessman could play games, so could Eames. "But I would hate to agree to anything without consulting with my partner first. Why don't you give Arthur a ring, and see what he says? Ta." And he hung up.

Arthur gave him a look. "Was that really necessary?"

"Sometimes, darling, you must remind a client that he is the one seeking our services. Not the other way around."

A moment later Arthur's smart phone began to buzz. As Eames padded off for a shower, he heard Arthur speak to Saito in low tones.

 

* * *


	4. Chapter 4

Giving a frustrated sigh, Arthur leaned back in his chair. He had been sitting in front of his laptop all day, but with little to show for it. Saito had been good as his word and allowed Arthur access to his resources – and he had vast resources. Arthur used to wonder how exactly Saito had managed to get Dom's charges dropped, but he wondered no longer.

 

If he wasn't certain Saito was on his side, he'd be a little frightened.

 

Still, with all of this power at his finger-tips, Arthur hadn't gotten very far in his search for Muir or Carson. If they were working anywhere local, they were being smart and very quiet about it. None of the usual red flags – either Arthur's or Saito's – were going up.

 

Arthur was usually a very patient digital hunter, but he couldn't stop irritation from mounting as the computer returned one empty query after another. Even the local morgues had turned up nothing.

 

He heard, but barely registered, the door at the front of the room open and Eames returning from his jaunt around the city. Arthur suspected that his bad temper had been the main reason why Eames had suggested he go out and get some air, but Arthur couldn't find it in himself to feel guilty.

And why wasn't the computer coming up with anything?!

Arthur resisted the urge to growl, barely aware his normally steel-armored self control was dissolving away. The ache in his wrist sharpened and he rubbed at it, almost viciously.

"Arthur?" He heard Eames' voice, as if from far away and realized the other man had called his name several times. "Are you okay?"

Eames walked up from behind him and touched his shoulder.

 

 

 

Arthur surged up, twisting to into a sloppy kick in his assailant's direction. He might have landed it, but the cuff about his wrist keeping his hand locked to the grate in the wall held him back.

Carson lurched back, falling on his ass in surprise. His partner gave a bark of laughter.

Arthur _hated_ the sound of that laugh.

"Watch yourself. The little prick has some life in him." Muir said, from the safety of ten feet away.

"Fuck you!" Arthur spat, tugging down on the restraint. He wished he knew that trick of dislocating his own thumb and getting free – no doubt his brother knew how, but he'd tried all last night and it wasn't as easy as the movies led him to believe. "I'm not going down there with you again! Do you hear me?"

Carson's – what did they call them? Projections? – were the worst. Arthur had been stabbed in the gut by a little girl last time and had barely got away... spent hours bleeding, almost wishing for death until the music had finally come, and he woke up.

Muir leered at him from across the room – all brown dirty teeth and yellowed, almost jaundiced eyes. Arthur felt his stomach roil, despite himself. He hadn't been down into Muir's dreams since that first time... since they thought he was his brother, and he barely remembered it. He had a feeling he _didn't_ want to remember it. The leer, like Muir had scoured him open and knew every secret, every thought, told him enough.

"You'll go under again," Muir said in that quiet, threatening way of his. Carson screamed. Muir didn't have to. "You'll go under until both levels are perfect. Saito isn't a fool, and if you cock this up I'll make sure you never see your girlfriend again."

"Let me see her," Arthur pleaded, his chest clenching. He hadn't seen Autumn since the second day when he'd fought the drugs enough to resist. Muir had dragged her in, put a gun to her head and ordered him to do what they said. "I'll do what you say. I just need to know she's okay."

Oh God, oh God if they had hurt her in any way...

"Later," Muir promised, and then nodded to Carson who sat up and approached Arthur again.

This time, he didn't resist as Carson pushed the cannula in...

 

 

... Arthur came back to himself, his face mashed into the carpet, one hand locked behind around, and what felt like a knee pushed into the small of his back. He tried to thrash, instinctively wanting to throw the other man off, and realized belatedly that it was Eames' labored breathing he heard above him.

"Eames!" he demanded, voice muffled by the carpet. "Get off!"

"Are you alright?" Eames' voice was close to his ear. Arthur felt the soft touch of fingers on his neck as Eames was checked for a pulse.

Arthur bucked up, annoyed. "Get off!"

There was a slight hesitation before the knee lifted. Arthur could immediately breathe easier. He rolled over onto his back carefully and sat up as Eames moved away from him. The other man was sweating slightly, massaging the side of his jaw. He didn't look amused.

"Care to tell me what that was about?" Eames bit out as he rubbed at the side of his jaw.

Arthur shook his head. "Tom's still alive. They got him, but he's still _there_. We have to move quickly because if Saito..." he got to his feet and trailed off. The writing desk he had been sitting at only moments before had been knocked over, the laptop sprawled across the floor in two pieces. "What happened?"

Eames rose to his feet, wincing, and Arthur realized that there was a mark on his jaw where he had been rubbing. It looked like he had been struck. "You were having a fit," Eames said carefully. "You attacked me. Do you remember?"

"No." Arthur shook his head again and his hand went into his pocket for his die, but this was reality. "No... Tom was..." he blinked as the rest came back to him. "Shit, they have Autumn. They're using her as leverage."

"Perhaps you should sit down, Arthur," Eames said.

He glared at him. "Do you think I would make this up?"

Eames went quiet for a moment, his gaze assessing. "No, but you have been under quite a lot of stress. For a moment I don't think you realized where you were at all."

"I didn't," he admitted, and some of the newfound energy drained away, replaced by the beginnings of embarrassment. Arthur stepped closer to Eames, eyeing his reddened jaw. "Did I hurt you?"

He meant it sincerely, but Eames' lip twitched in amusement. "The day I'm felled by your left hook is the day I will retire."

"Remember Istanbul?" Arthur shot back.

Eames flat out grinned at him. "Only bits of it, but that was the point." Then the grin slipped a little and he reached to tilt Arthur's jaw up slightly and look into his eyes. "Your sister mentioned a 'freaky twin thing'."

"Yeah." Feeling his cheeks heat, he twisted away from Eames to go hunt for his cell phone. It was easier to talk about this when he wasn't looking at him. "Tom and I used to know when the other was upset or hurt. But that hasn't happened... for a long time."

He located his cell phone half buried under scattered papers.

"Who are you calling?" Eames asked almost warily.

"Autumn. Either she's in danger, or she knows more than what she's been telling us."

He dialed and the phone rang three times before she picked it up. "Hello?"

 

The sound of her voice made Arthur's heart lurch into double-time. He flashed again to how Tom had felt for her – how frightened he was that she could be hurt. The depth of that feeling was still real and vivid in his mind – familiar, too, Arthur realized as he hazarded a look at Eames.

 

"It's Arthur. Are you alright?" he asked, and he could hear the bite in his own voice.

 

"Arthur? I—I'm fine. What do you want?" She went on, before he had time to respond, "Is it about Tom? Do you have any news?"

 

Eames was watching him with a carefully neutral expression. Arthur looked away.

 

"We've received information that he may be alive, but I need to talk to you in person. Where can we meet?" He didn't want to have this conversation over the phone, not if she was being intimidated somehow.

 

"I can get off work right now."

 

Arthur gave her the address of their hotel and hung up.

 

"I'm surprised she agreed to meet, considering she may still be upset with you," Eames said, a touch too lightly.

 

Arthur cut a glance at him, wondering if Autumn was the only one upset with him right now. With the connection with Tom gone, his wrist no longer ached, but there was a definite throb in his knuckles. Eames, he knew, liked to play it off as if he wasn't hurt, but Arthur knew he could hit hard.

 

Coming to a decision, Arthur righted a sprawled desk chair and straddled it. "Tom's being held by Muir and Carson," he started, and then began to recount everything that he experienced, briefly, through Tom's eyes.

 

Eames was a good listener. He did not interrupt or shift his expression to anything but politely interested. He spoke only when Arthur finished, "How certain are you that this was real and not some sort of a stress related daydream?"

 

Arthur let out a breath and ran his fingers back through his hair. "It happened."

 

Eames granted him another long, assessing look, but then nodded once, sharply.

 

"You believe me then?" Arthur asked, and felt something clench anew in his chest. He wasn't sure if he would, had the positions been reversed.

 

"I've always had faith in your ability to discern dream from reality, darling," he replied easily.

 

Arthur decided at that moment he would have to repay Eames somehow for dealing with his bullshit. Maybe he would take him on vacation for a few weeks in one of those hot, dry locations that Eames loved. Was there a greeting card that would cover this? _I know you probably don't believe me, but thanks for being there anyway._

 

"So you say their plan is to take Saito down two levels." Eames mused, leaning back on the hotel bed. "Risky business when your architect is green and intimidated into cooperating. Any disturbance by agitated projections could cause the whole thing to collapse. What could they be planning?"

 

"I don't know." But the reminder of two levels got his mind spinning in other directions. "Shit," Arthur breathed. "Carson is a forger."

 

"Not as good as I am," Eames sniffed.

 

"No, but Tom wouldn't know the difference. They could have taken him down two levels, forged Autumn and scared him into working with them that way or..." he trailed off as something even worse struck him.

 

Eames' jaw tightened. "They already have someone who looks like you, and if Carson could passably forge me... Then they'd have two people that Saito trusts, wouldn't they?"

 

 

* * *

 

 

 Eames took it upon himself to contact Saito to give him the heads up while Arthur went about putting the room back in order. He didn't know how – even with the struggle he and Eames had – it could have gotten into its messy, strewn state. Disorganization itched at his soul, and he had just gotten the desk, chairs and papers put back into place when Eames' raised voice floated in from the balcony.

 

"Then you bloody well get him on the phone. He's on a jet plane, not—" his voice cut short, and Arthur straightened, listening.

 

"Yeah," Eames said again, still sharp. "Yes, I'm sure you will." Then he lowered the phone, hitting the end-call key in disgust. He turned, and seeing Arthur watching him said darkly, "Saito's head of security tells me he's currently in flight and not available."

 

Arthur's brows knit. "They should still be able to get a hold of him using his satellite phone. Unless..." he paused, a feeling of dread tightening his gut, "Unless it's a precursor for the extraction."

 

"If someone was able to pay off his head of security, they might have access to more of Saito's people," Eames said, his face settling into grim lines. "What would you bet that his flight gets diverted, perhaps to a smaller airport? More private."

 

"Shit," Arthur muttered and glanced around the room – the mess, his laptop still laying in two broken pieces from earlier. And for one horrible, black moment he had no idea what he was supposed to do next. Perhaps Muir and Carson had gotten wind of him and Eames hunting for Tom... or they had always been working on a quick timeline. Either way, events were happening too fast. If that airplane landed and Saito realized that one of the extractors looked like Arthur... if the job was completed and Muir decided he didn't need Tom anymore... if...

 

There was a sharp knock on the door. Arthur was too well trained to startle, but he did reach for the gun which still sat on the nightstand. It was only a small relief that Eames did the same – his weapon holstered under his cream colored jacket.

 

With a motion to Eames to cover his back, Arthur checked the peephole: it was Autumn, standing there puffy-faced and red-eyed, but with what could only be described as a expression of triumph on her face.

 

She outright grinned at Arthur as he opened the door, holding up her cell phone. "You wouldn't believe who I just got a call from," she said, before Arthur had time to let her in. "Someone just used Tom's debit card, ten minutes ago."

 

* * *

 

"Ten minutes ago?" Eames repeated, a little dumbfounded.

 

"Who gave you that information?" Arthur asked, sharply.

 

Autumn looked at him, and some of her triumph seemed to drain from her face as she seemed to remember she was angry at him. She tilted her head up, mouth set in a stubborn line. "Summer," she said. "She works at the bank – the one where Tom keeps his account, and she called me to apologize for... everything. And to tell me that his card had just been used at a Shell gas station in San Juan Capistrano."

 

Eames didn't need to see Arthur's face to tell what he was thinking – the stillness in his body said it all: Summer was Nash's wife, and this information was a little too convenient to be taken at face value.

 

"Why don't you come in?" Eames suggested, before Arthur could chase her away with something suitably Arthur-ish. "We have some information of our own to share."

 

Autumn stepped in, so obviously hesitant and gripping her brand-name purse so tightly under her arm that Eames would have bet money on the fact she was carrying either a taser or a can of mace.

 

"Well?" Autumn asked. "Shouldn't we go... do something?"

 

"It will take at least an hour to get over there at this time of day, with traffic. If it was a gas station whoever used that card will be gone by now," Arthur said. "Besides, Tom's working for Muir and Carson – they'll need him alive until the extraction is completed."

 

"Extraction?"

 

Arthur didn't elaborate, only swept her up and down with the type of assessing gaze Eames had seen make marks and clients squirm. "Autumn," Arthur said. "We've received information that Tom is working with these people because he believes you're in danger. If you've had any contact with him, we need to know now."

 

"No!" She shook her head vigorously. "I would have told you last night."

 

Arthur eyes met Eames, and there was a question in there. Eames shrugged his reply – he knew himself to be very good with reading and forging people, and her reaction seemed genuine enough, but it wasn't as if he were some sort of living lie detector. "The only way to know for certain would be to take her under."

 

Autumn's eyes widened and her hand slid to the zipper of her purse.

 

But Arthur shook his head. "We don't have time." He looked again towards Autumn. "If you're keeping back anything at all—"

 

"I'm not the one who keeps secrets from people," she said, so much venom in her voice that Eames had no doubt that, at least, was a genuine answer.

 

He saw Arthur wince at that, very slightly. It put Eames' back up.

 

"We're not in a kind business, pet," he told her. "Arthur has done what he must to try to keep his family safe."

 

"Eames," Arthur said. "It's fine. I don't care what she thinks."

 

But Eames did. "He needn't have come at all, you realize that? I know many men who wouldn't."

 

"Tom wouldn't be in trouble if it wasn't for him!" Autumn snapped, pointing a finger accusingly at Arthur.

 

"And if it wasn't for Tom looking so much like him, Muir and Carson wouldn't have as clear of a shot at making a grab at their mark as they now do." Eames shot back. "They are targeting someone Arthur knows well, and will be using that similarity to get at him. It's not Arthur's fault Tom went dashing after a job opportunity that must have been too good to be true without a second thought. It's not—"

 

" _Enough_." Arthur said, coming between them. He graced Eames the look he usually reserved when Eames was messing around when they were trying to work. "It doesn't matter Eames." And before Eames could reply, Arthur turned towards Autumn. "You are sticking with us from now on. The people who have Tom know who you are, and I'm not going to have you used against us or him."

 

Autumn opened her mouth, looking like she wanted to argue, but then reluctantly admitted, "I was going to ask to come anyway."

 

"Good." Arthur turned from her and strode back to his stack of notes he had compiled last night – his movements so brisk and efficient and _in control_ \-- the Arthur that Eames knew best, that he stood back and watched him appreciatively for a moment. "I don't trust anything to do with Nash, but the gas station is our best lead, and I'll need a laptop," Arthur said, with a glance towards his broken one.

 

"I have my netbook I use for work in my car," Autumn said, tentatively. "Will that work?"

 

Arthur looked as if he was on the verge of smiling. "That'll work. Let's go."

 

* * *

 

Autumn insisted on driving her own car. Eames called the back seat, knowing he would get the best shot from there in case things got hairy. That left Arthur to the passenger’s seat, balancing Autumn’s tiny netbook – pink with glittery swirls along the top – on his lap.

 

“Your internet provider is horrible,” Arthur griped, after ten minutes of typing.

 

A ghost of a smile flickered across Autumn’s face. “That’s what Tom says, too.”

 

“Tom has good taste,” Arthur replied, and went back to his study of the screen.

 

A few minutes later, they hit pay-dirt.

 

Arthur’s steady clack-clacking of the keys suddenly stilled and Eames saw him lean forward, squinting at the tiny screen. “According to the security tape at the gas station… there was only one car parked at the pump at the time Tom’s debit was used. It looks like a white or cream colored GMC van.”

 

“Wait,” said Autumn, “So if you guys aren’t CIA or something, how do you even have access to this kind of information?”

 

“Arthur has friends in high places.” Like Proclus Global. Eames leaned forward, reading over Arthur’s shoulder. The image itself was definitely gas station quality – grainy and indistinct and shot with a frame every few seconds. The driver was a blur. “Can you zoom in at all? A plate number would be useful.”

 

Arthur shook his head. “Not without destroying the resolution.”

 

Eames hummed slightly as he thought. “That’s an unusual enough make and model. Do you think—“

 

“I’ll look,” Arthur said, on the heels of his thought. He started furiously typing again. “I still have access to the metro police files from last night. If nothing else we might be able to forge an APV on the van—“ He stopped suddenly as a new file sprang up on the screen. Eames was too far back to read the tiny writing clearly, but Arthur’s jaw clenched as he read.

 

Then he broke out into a smile that could only be deemed predatory.

 

“There have been three parking tickets in the last week issued on a white GMC Savana registered to a Thomas Solomon.”

 

“Who?” Autumn asked.

 

“Probably a fake identity, pet,” Eames clarified, his heart picking up the pace. “But that may help to explain how Tom’s debit card was used. You must be very careful with identities – it’s easier than people think to mix them up if you’re using more than a few. Whoever is using Thomas Solomon might have grabbed Thomas Hansen’s card by mistake and not realized it.”

 

“Very, very sloppy of them.” But Arthur didn’t sound like he was complaining. His grin widened, showing teeth. “Two of the tickets were issued at the same block for parking overnight in a business district.” He glanced back at Eames, his eyes dark with anticipation – and Eames could have almost felt sorry for those who had taken Arthur’s brother. Almost.

 

“I have an address,” Arthur told them.

 

* * *

 

The warehouse was in an old part of the city – an area in trouble even before the depths of the recession, with buildings and factories left hollow and open. The professional in Eames was a little disgusted that someone had picked this as a worksite at all. Yes, it was private, but overly so: any activity would be instantly noticed and there was virtually no chance of blending in.

 

The white van was parked in a shadowed part alongside a warehouse with half the windows busted out of the face of it.

 

Sloppy, Arthur had said, and Eames silently added _complacent_ to it. Muir and Carson were acting like men who had nothing to fear, and thought they were smart enough to get away with cutting corners.

 

Though perhaps it had a grain of truth in that. From what Eames had heard of their particular form of extraction, the marks were usually left incapable of functioning on higher levels, much less coming after them.

 

Arthur directed Autumn to drive by the warehouse at normal speed while he and Eames looked intently towards the building.

 

"There," Eames said, pointing to the second window from the right on the second story. The pane had a large crack in it, but he had caught sight of a darker square – a camera to watch the outside traffic.

 

Autumn turned the car in a wide circle and they parked well away, in an alley two warehouses down. Eames checked the rounds in his handgun and saw Arthur do the same.

 

"What do we do next?" Autumn asked. "Call the police?"

 

"No, you don't want the police caught up in this," Eames said, replacing his gun. "Stay here and keep the car running. Arthur and I—"

 

"No, absolutely not." Autumn twisted her key out of the ignition, cutting off the engine as if to underline her words. "If you think Tom is in there, I'm coming too."

 

Eames had half expected this. He looked over to Arthur for help, but the other man had eyes only for the warehouse. "These are dangerous people," Eames told her. "This won't be a jaunt in the park."

 

"I... I don't care. Look, I'll stay behind you the whole time. I won't get in the way."

 

"You'll be between us," Arthur corrected, "I need Eames to watch our backs."

 

 _That_ had not been what Eames had expected to hear at all. He started to say, "Arthur—" but Arthur cut him off with a quick shake of his head and turned to Autumn.

 

"I don't know exactly what Tom's been through in there, but he may not know reality from fantasy." He caught Autumn's widening eyes, held her gaze. "He may not know he's awake and try to hurt one of us – but I don't think he would ever hurt you."

 

Autumn sucked in a quick breath and her glance slid over towards Eames as if for confirmation. When he nodded in reluctant agreement, she faced Arthur. "He would _never_ hurt me," she confirmed, though her voice shook slightly, as if she only now was starting to realize the level of danger she was in for.

 

"I don't think this is a good idea, Arthur," Eames said, although he saw the logic in his reasoning. If Tom was forced to muck about in two levels without a totem, he could easily lose himself. "She could be a liability."

 

"I have a taser," Autumn offered, holding up her purse.

 

"Do you now? Oh, well that makes all the difference."

 

Arthur's mouth twitched again into his almost-smile. "She gave Nash a few bruises last night. I think she can handle herself. Let's go, Eames. I need you to cover my six."

 

"Don't I always, darling?"

 

* * *

 

 The side door to the warehouse was held shut by a simple, but new looking, padlock. Eames easily defeated it with the slim pick he always had handy in his pocket. Gun drawn, Arthur nodded for the two of them to stay back while he pushed open the door.

 

It swung open with a wrenching squeal of rust and disuse – the sound seemed to echo inside the building. Arthur stepped in first and called back "clear" after only a few moments.

 

The warehouse looked to be stripped down of anything remotely recyclable years ago, leaving only concrete floors and open space. There was a single shaky looking staircase leading up to the second level, bereft of even a safety banister.

 

Again, Arthur led the way, gun drawn.

 

"They're here!" he called. And abandoning caution, Eames rushed up, outpacing Autumn to the top floor.

 

Someone had dragged simple furniture up to the second floor. Eames spotted two figures – one reclined upon a worn looking armchair, and the second laid out upon a utilitarian army cot against the wall. A PASIV device hissed quietly between them.

 

Arthur was already bent by the man at the cot, and with a little cry Autumn joined him.

 

"Tom!? Is he okay?"

 

"He'll be fine," Eames heard Arthur murmur.

 

Eames glanced at the second man – thick, and balding, but he didn't know if it was Carson or Muir. A quick check of his pockets, however, found no weapons. The PASIV looked to be a second generation knockoff with up to four leads. Not top quality, but good enough for most work. The timer read eighteen more minutes.

 

"Eames," Arthur said, "Come help me get these cuffs off him."

 

He joined the others by the cot, and the despite the fact he knew what he would still see... his stomach still gave an unpleasant little flip. Tom, unconscious and pale, was Arthur's almost exact double – a little longer hair, more messily done, and more wan... although that could have been the treatment he had been suffering over the last few days. His left wrist was handcuffed to grate in the wall, the skin underneath purpled and bruised.

 

"Tom," Autumn said, a little bit louder now, combing her fingers through his hair. She looked at Arthur. "Why isn't he waking up?"

 

"He's still hooked to the PASIV, sweet. He's under sedation." Eames said, and with a click the cuffs released. "Shall we give him the kick, Arthur?"

 

Autumn looked alarmed. "The what?"

 

Arthur however, now stood several paces back, his fists clenched so hard that his knuckles stood out pale yellow against his skin. "No," he said, "If he's the architect the dream will collapse as soon as we wake him up." The glance he gave at the other, balding man, was pure murder. "This is our chance to find out what – _how much_ they know and what they're planning."

 

"Bit risky," Eames said, but he wasn't arguing.

 

"I know. Give me ten minutes. If I'm not back by then, kick us both out." Arthur strode to the PASIV and started uncoiling the spare lead.

 

"Wait... what are you doing?" Autumn started to rise, but then, looking like she didn't want to leave her boyfriend's side, knelt protectively by Tom again. "Why can't we just yank out the IV?"

 

As Arthur was busy rubbing down the cannula with alcohol, Eames explained, "Arthur will join the dream and wake him up from there. It will be a gentler for Tom. Better for him, if he's already been traumatized." Then he looked towards Arthur. "It will be dangerous down there. The projections will be on high alert."

 

"I can handle myself," Arthur replied, sitting down and bracing his back against the cot. Eames took the cannula from him and waited until Arthur had rolled up his sleeve.

 

"Keep our bodies safe," Arthur said. "That's Carson over there. We're lucky Muir isn't around, but he could be back any minute."

 

"I can handle myself," Eames replied, in the same intonation Arthur had used a moment before.

 

Arthur flashed him a smile, and didn't wince as Eames pushed the needle in. His eyes slipped shut a moment later and his head lolled back.

 

"What now?" Autumn asked quietly, as if she were now afraid of waking them.

 

"Now," said Eames as he rose with cuffs in hand to take care of Carson. "It's up to Arthur."

   


* * *


	5. Chapter 5

Arthur stood in a park.

He looked around, frowning. This was a place he recognized, a place he had been many times as a teen and which he knew Tom had been as well... which meant that his brother was building from memories. That wasn't good.

Glancing down at his watch, Arthur set the timer for two hours. Then he started walking.

He had been prepared for anything, but the overall atmosphere in the park was one of... tranquility. Arthur followed a bike path which curved through springy lawns and around groves of flowering cherry trees; soft petals drifting up away with the light breeze. The sun was high and warm overhead, the sky a deep, clear blue. A monarch butterfly drifted past, alighting briefly on a flower before moving on.

Arthur briefly paused at a bench overlooking what would normally be the city vista. Tom had shifted the cityscape, he noted with some amusement. The tall skyscrapers in the distance now looked like three jagged fingers reaching to the sky... the middle extended much more prominently than the rest. A manifestation of resistance, perhaps?

A passing bicyclist flew on by at top speed, so close Arthur felt the wind of his passing. In the distance, he could hear children playing – loud shrieks drowning out laughter. It seemed at odds with the sunny spring day: the projections were on edge, but not hostile. Not yet.

Arthur walked on, noting how the bike path doubled back without quite seeming to do so – trees and a few water features were placed to catch the eye, and draw attention away from fact that every route seemed to funnel into the same direction. It was neatly done, though the method was still a little transparent to Arthur's experienced eye.

Still, he let the maze guide him, knowing that the most attention would be paid towards the heart of it all. That would be where the trap would be sprung.

Two more bicyclists flashed by, one sneering a curse at Arthur to get out of the way or be run over. They curved down the path, disappearing into a thick, shadowed patch of trees. Beyond, Arthur heard the sound of babbling water – and an angry male voice.

Arthur increased his pace and soon passed through the barrier of trees to step into an authentic looking Japanese strolling garden. The area itself was alight with subtle green bushes. A small stream wound throughout and drained into a pond with flashing white and orange koi. A free standing wooden tea house stood off to the side.

Carson stood there, his back to Arthur, one meaty hand laying flat against the wooden wall of the tea house and jabbing the finger of his other hand in the chest of a slighter figure. The other man wore jeans and a dark gray hoodie, his head turned away as if Carson berated him, either unwilling or unable to look into his eyes.

"This needs to be perfect!" Carson snarled. "Anything out of the ordinary, anything at all and it'll tip him off. I saw that skyline! You think this is a joke?" Then Carson almost casually struck Tom upside the head. Tom staggered, shoulder crashing into the wall of the tea house.

Anger, dark and hot, bubbled up in Arthur's veins. Breaking into a jog, he made a beeline for them both.

"I want more fish in that pond," Carson continued, unnoticing. He pulled Tom back up to his feet by the scruff of his sweater, as if he were an errant puppy. "And get rid of that jungle-gym out in the first loop on the path. Kids are distracting and we don't need–"

Arthur came up from behind him and in one swift movement, locked his elbow around Caron's fat neck. The other man choked and tried to throw an elbow back, but Arthur was too quick, and, with a sharp kick to the back of his knee, knocked Carson to the ground. They fell together, but Arthur had a good lock on him and within moments Carson's movements slowed – stopped. He gave it a few more seconds to be sure, and released. He didn't want to kill him – that would only wake him up.

"Arthur?" The hoodie had slipped from Tom's head. His face was waxen, eyes bruised with exhaustion. He stared at his twin in a haunted sort of shock, as if he wasn't sure if he should embrace him or run for his life.

But there was no time for reunions. A woman screamed from the other side of the gardens – these were Carson's projections. They would be on the war path, soon.

Arthur glanced around. His eyes fell on the tea-house. "Does this have a way in?"

"Y-yeah. Around the back."

"Good," Arthur said, "Help me with him."

Together, each one grabbing Carson by the arm, they dragged the unconscious man around back and through the door. Once all three stood inside, Arthur closed the door and locked it.

"Are you a projection?" Tom wondered. "My projection?"

Arthur turned from the door to face him. "No," he said, keeping his voice quiet and firm. "I'm really here. I came under to wake you up and... Autumn's up there, too. We're going to get you out. You're going to be okay, Tom."

Tom shook his head, but it wasn't in denial. "Autumn's with you?" he repeated. "She's safe?"

"She's fine, but she's been worried about you." He hated the uncertainty in Tom's face, just as he had hated seeing it with Cobb – as if he wasn't sure, even now, if the world around him was real or a dream. So Arthur added. "We've all been looking for you... I couldn't _stop_ her from coming along."

His brother took a step closer, looking intently at his face as if looking for a sign of deception. "Arthur?"

"It's really me," he confirmed.

This close, he saw the exact moment when Tom started to accept his words as truth – then the flash of anger that replaced uncertainty.

Tom punched Arthur, hard, in the mouth.

"Asshole!" he yelled, while Arthur staggered back, tripped over Carson's body, and landed flat on his ass. "They thought I was you at first! I almost got shot in the face! Then they dragged me back to their warehouse, threatened my girlfriend – _this_ is what you do for a living? Huh?" He loomed over Arthur, fists clenched and shaking at his sides, face contorted into something ugly.

For an insane moment, Arthur wondered if he looked half as scary when he was really pissed off.

"Tom... no.." Arthur held up his hands in a gesture of peace, trying to stave him off as he got up. He could taste blood in his mouth and knew he had cut his lip on his teeth. "Not like this."

"Then what?! Do you know what they're going to do to that guy? Their mark?" Tom continued, as if Arthur hadn't spoken. "They're going to lead him through mazes _I_ designed and trap him down in Hell for years – decades until he's completely insane. _And then they are going to do the same to me._ " The last part came out broken, almost a sob. "I heard Muir and Carson talking about it when they thought I wasn't listening. He... he's going to leave me for you to find as a warning, because you screwed them over... and..."

He couldn't continue because Arthur closed the distance and grabbed him in a fierce hug. Tom stiffened as if to fight him off, but Arthur had conveniently pinned his arms to his sides.

Arthur said, "They're not going to do that to you, okay? I found you. You're going to be all right..."

"How do I know it's you?" Tom asked, muscles and sinew strung so tightly that Arthur could feel him trembling. "I thought things were real so many times and then I'd wake up." He drew in a ragged breath. "Carson got fed up once and took me outside, made me dig my own grave. I thought—I thought they were going to... but then I woke up. And they had Autumn... they put a gun to her head."

"Jesus, Tom," Arthur breathed. "I'm sorry. I never thought any of this would ever... I'm so, so sorry."

Tom didn't reply, but he didn't try to pull away either; his breathing hitched and silted as if he was struggling not to cry, and failing.

Arthur released his brother slowly, more than a little wary of being hit again, but Tom only stood there looking listless as if the outburst had taken the last dregs of his energy. Arthur turned his head briefly away to wipe damp streaks of his own off his cheeks.

He wondered, briefly, if he shouldn't just give him the kick now, but he'd spent years working with one of the greatest extractors of all time, and he had a good idea of how the mind worked. Catharsis, Dom had once told him, was a powerful process, easily underestimated.

It wouldn't do Tom any good to wake him, if he still doubted he was dreaming.

Arthur's hand fell to his jacket pocket and he withdrew his loaded die. "You need a totem," he said, uncurling his fingers to show his brother the die. "Remember this?"

Tom's brows knit. "Yeah..." he said slowly. "Las Vegas, right? I got one that landed on four or higher. Yours landed on the lower numbers."

"That's right. Roll it," Arthur said.

Still looking doubtful, Tom took the die. He didn't know – couldn't have known that it was the first time Arthur had let anyone touch it, not even Eames.

Tom bent and tossed it lightly across the floor. It landed on a six.

"I don't understand," he said.

"It's called a totem," Arthur explained. "It can be easy to lose yourself in a dream, so experienced dream sharers carry around little items to remind ourselves if we're asleep or awake. I'm the only one who knows the trick of that die, and as long as it ends up rolling on the wrong number, I know I'm in someone else's dream."

Tom didn't answer, but picked up the dice and rolled it twice more. A three and a five.

"When we're awake, I'll let you roll it again – you'll see." Arthur said, feeling a little desperate now with Tom's continued silence. His twin had always been prone to outbursts, swinging easily from one emotion to another. Seeing Tom now, unanswering and withdrawn, frightened him a little.

But Tom picked up the die for a fourth time and didn't roll it, instead clenching it in his hand. Then, with the air of a decision made, he slipped it in the pocket of his jeans and stood to face Arthur. "How about if I wake up, and it's in your pocket instead of mine, I know I'm awake."

"Yeah," he replied, relief flooding through him. It was a start. "That'll work."

Carson stirred slightly by their feet and Arthur had to fight the sudden urge to draw his gun and shoot him somewhere non-lethal but immensely painful. Or dream up a pack of wild hyenas and set them loose. Or—

Tom reacted with speed borne of fear, lurching towards a shadowed cabinet in the corner and withdrawing a familiar silver case. PASIV devices usually had extra vials of somnacin, and before Carson could do more than raise his head, Tom jabbed him viciously in the ass with a loaded syringe. Carson groaned and went quiet.

"You were going to lead Saito here and put him under again," Arthur said.

Tom nodded, looking sick. "Carson was going to change his appearance, make himself look like Saito's ex-wife. He proposed to her in a garden like this. It... was supposed to put him in a more retrospective mood – plant the idea of regret."

"And the second level?"

"Corporate building. We designed a scenario where his business is failing and his board turns against him. The regret plays in on that. There was supposed to be some kind of betrayal from within. They didn't tell me much about it, but I was supposed to hold up the second level while Muir took him under again."

The betrayal from within sounded ominous, and lent weight to the theory that Muir was planning to use Tom as a double for Arthur himself, while Carson forged a look-alike for Eames.

Tom glanced up suddenly, brows knit. "I never told you their mark's name, though. How did you know?"

"I've had dealings with Saito in the past, and he's a high profile target." Arthur checked his watch. Just under an hour had passed in the dream, making it about five minutes up above. "Tom," he said, "It's important that I find out what his exact plans are for Saito, and who hired him in the first place. You don't have to come," he added, seeing his brother pale. He withdrew his handgun and shoved it into Tom's limp hands. "Stay here and watch our bodies. If the projections find you, give yourself the kick."

"The what?" Tom rasped.

That gave Arthur a pause. "When you die in a dream, you wake up." The look of horror and disbelief on Tom's face spoke volumes. Arthur swallowed. "Of course... they wouldn't want to give you an easy way to escape back up. They never told you."

"You want me to shoot myself?"

Preferably, Arthur would have liked for Tom to shoot him awake first and _then_ himself, but he had a feeling that wouldn't go over well either. "Yes."

"But if you shoot yourself... doesn't your mind make it real?"

"This isn't the Matrix," Arthur told him, rolling his eyes. "You just wake up." And the glare Tom gave him was so sour, so _Tom_ that for a moment Arthur felt like they were teenagers again, arguing who was better – The Smiths or The Flaming Lips.

"Fuck it," Tom said, handing back the gun and rolling up the sleeve of his hoodie. "I'm coming with you."

* * *

When Arthur opened his eyes, he found himself in a light, airy room with round port-hole windows to the outside and a full length mirror set in the corner. He blinked and went through the process of tracing back how he had arrived there and what he recalled last.

"Never build from memories," he remembered telling Tom. "Always create new."

Tom had frowned at him. "Okay, but what do you need?"

Arthur had given him the very basics of what the extraction would require and then added, "As for the rest... surprise me."

He remembered the glint of challenge in his brother's eyes as they plugged themselves in – Tom with the architect line and the still unconscious Carson as the dreamer. Arthur took one of the guest lines, and pressed the plunger on the PASIV...

It had come back to him now. They were in the attic.

Arthur turned and caught sight of Tom looking his own attire over – the hoodie and ratty jeans were gone. Tom had cleaned himself up – still in jeans, but those were fresh and new. He'd complimented it with a two button sports jacket, and a dark tie. His hair was combed neatly back, though not as heavily jelled as Arthur usually kept his.

Tom caught his eye and gave a sideways smile, reaching into his pocket and withdrawing Arthur's totem. "Still asleep," he confirmed. "We're in the attic level. The party should be downstairs. So how do we do this?"

"You're going in as me," Arthur said, stepping to the mirror. He gave his own reflection a once over, and on second thought, removed his tie. "I'll be a man named Dom Cobb."

"I don't understand."

"Have you ever dreamed you're someone else?"

Tom started to shake his head then stopped, frowning. "Sometimes, if I fall asleep reading. But... you can do that?"

"Not normally," Arthur admitted. "It's a specialized talent, and I've known Dom for years so I think I'll be able to pull it off. There's a man named Eames – you'll meet him topside, he's guarding our bodies with Autumn. He can forge a person so easily it's like... art." He was facing his own reflection, and so caught the odd, wistful expression on his face. Quickly, he controlled it, but not before Tom noticed.

His eyebrows rose. "Eames, huh?"

 _"It's not like that,"_ Arthur wanted to say, but that would have been a lie. It was. He just didn't want to hear one of Tom's tangents on love at that moment. "Yeah," he said, curtly, and concentrated on his reflection – remembering Dom's blue eyes. Eames always told him that, when forging, to start with the eyes. _Windows to the soul, darling_.

"How come I never heard of this Eames guy before now?" Tom asked, totally destroying all of Arthur's concentration.

He grit his teeth. "Why do you think?" he said, with a gesture around the room, meaning dream share... everything. "Besides, we've... It's only been a few months."

"This from the guy who told me one night stands are all anyone should ever need." Tom was nearly grinning now, clearly enjoying a rare occasion to tease his brother. "So, do you love him?"

"You tell me. You're the expert on love," Arthur snapped, his feathers thoroughly ruffled.

Tom just chuckled, but thankfully held up his hands. "Okay, okay."

Arthur faced his reflection and recalled Dom. Not as he had seen him last – oddly content and sharing beers with Arthur as they watched the children play in the back yard. But how he remembered working with him when he was on the run: the slightly manic glint in his eyes, as if he expected to turn a corner and see Mal there at any second because he just _might_ still be dreaming.

What would it feel like to lose Eames like how Dom had lost Mal?

Arthur grimaced at that thought, and Dom in the mirror grimaced back at him: dirty blonde hair, his favorite slightly rumpled jacket, and the air of loss which hung thick around him like a cloud. He'd retained his same height and was an inch or two too short – he wasn't a professional forger after all – but Carson probably wouldn't be observant enough to pick up on that.

"Wow," Tom said, stepping back to take a good look at him. "You look a little like that guy from _Titanic_."

"Dom wishes," Arthur said, and was pleased when his voice came out a lighter baritone. He didn't know how long he could hold this up. It was time to get to work. "Do you have those folders I asked you about?"

* * *

Eames trussed Carson up as best he could, careful not to move the cannula while securing the man's thick arms behind his back. At least that way, should he wake early, he would at least be easier to control.

Autumn didn't move where she sat by Tom's side, biting her lower lip in worry. "I still don't understand why we can't just wake them up," she said. "What could Arthur do in just ten minutes?"

"Ten minutes to us," Eames corrected as he moved over to a nearby corner where piles of papers – receipts and schematics for a 747 jetliner among them – lay crumpled in a corner. These men were slobs. "It'll be two hours for them, down there."

She blinked and opened her mouth to ask another question.

And they both froze at the sound of a rusty hinges squeaking open downstairs.

Motioning for her to stay back and be quiet, Eames withdrew his handgun and scuttled to the top of the stairs to peer down.

"—make the grab in three hours," someone said, his voice bouncing around through the warehouse enough that Eames couldn't pin-point his exact location.

"We got everything covered on our end," said another voice, lower in pitch. "What was this about your architect?"

"Oh, you're going to _love_ this," the first voice said.

The two men rounded the corner at the same time. The first was smaller with a pointed-nose and was still talking – Muir, Eames assumed, and he planned on shooting him first – repay him for a little agony he had put Tom –and Arthur— through. But Muir's deep voiced associate spotted him and drew first.

Eames shot, but he was already ducking away, and he knew without looking that the bullet went wide. Gunfire flew over his head as he landed flat on his belly.

"That's not your man?" the deep voiced man said, and must have received a negative because Eames next heard, "I'm calling for backup."

Eames knew without looking that his clip held fifteen bullets. He'd already used one. As he stepped back and took firm position between the stairwell and Autumn and the sleeping twins, he glanced at the PASIV timer. Five minutes to go.

He may not have that long, but he would give them as much time as he could.

  


* * *

  
The attic was equipped with a trap door built into the floor which led to the main level below. Arthur went first, wanting to get there before Tom in case the projections were already suspicious.

Fine, classical violin music spilled in the moment he began stepping down the ladder, along with quiet babble of people – no urgency in their tones. So far, so good.

Arthur was halfway down the short ladder, however, when a subtle rumbling shook the room. He stilled, and his hands which still gripped the rungs briefly blurred into his own until he reestablished focus. The problem with forging in dreams was that it required constant concentration and will. He didn't know how Eames did it.

Tom's head peeked over the trap-door. "What was that?"

"Something is happening above," Arthur replied, keeping Dom's voice stoic. Either their bodies were in trouble in the first level or, more likely, up top. If that was the case, he trusted Eames to handle it. Arthur jumped the last step, brushed off Dom's spotless slacks and gestured for Tom to follow.

The room they'd entered was actually a small utility closet, complete with a wash bucket and brooms. Arthur's eyes fell to a spider-web in the corner. It seemed Tom had an unusual mind for detail.

Tom, rather whimsically, used the railing rather than the steps to come down, and cocked an eyebrow at Arthur when he gave him a dirty look. Arthur knew his brother was nervous if not outright afraid, given the sheen of sweat blooming on his forehead – he was to confront Carson, who had tormented him for days, after all – but Tom was misdirecting, as he used to do when they were kids, by showing off.

Now was not the time.

"You're supposed to be me," he reminded him. "Get serious."

"I still don't get it," Tom muttered, though to his credit he squared his shoulders and frowned at Arthur rather darkly. "He's just going to confess everything to us, James Bond villain style?"

Arthur shook his head. "Dom Cobb has the reputation of being the best extractor in the business. Carson tried working for him once when he needed a forger – I was there, but Cobb turned him down because his methods were..." he trailed off, seeing his brother wince, and decided he didn't need to elaborate. "I'm willing to bet on some level he still wants to impress Dom. We can use that to our advantage."

Tom hesitated for a long, long moment, looking at Arthur as if trying to see right through him. "You act like your methods are different than Muir's."

"Because they are. Muir and Carson get results by pain and intimidation. They don't come much worse," Arthur said, bluntly. "Real extractors like the man I'm playing get information from misdirection, trickery. We don’t damage the mind."

"It's still theft."

"Yeah," he said and he didn't shy away from it. He had come to terms a long time ago that he was a criminal, and aside from his immediate family, everyone he cared about was as well. "It is." He paused, letting that sink in. "I'll understand if you don't want to do this – I'm Cobb's right hand man, and my absence would be noted if I wasn't there, but I can do this without you if I need to."

He was almost certain Tom was going to take him up on his offer. Arthur couldn't blame him – he'd been through hell over the last few days, and this business was not for everyone.

Then Tom lifted his chin, doubt solidifying into a steely sort of certainty that looked, honestly, a little intimidating.

"Lead the way, Mr. Cobb," he said.

* * *

  
The utility closet led to a wider ballroom. A small stage took up one wide corner, elegant tables covered in what looked to be pristine white silk in another. It reminded Arthur of a wedding reception, although the projections around him seemed to be in the mood to gossip and socialize rather than celebrate.

With Tom by his side, Arthur wound his way around groups of talking people, returning curious stares with polite nods and keeping his eye open. More than one projection didn’t turn away after they passed, but stared after. They weren’t on alert yet, but the feeling Arthur got as he moved into the middle of the room was one of unwelcome.

This wasn’t like a proper extraction at all. It would be quick and dirty, and if they were _lucky_ they would get something out of this.

Tom touched his arm briefly to get his attention. “Over there,” he said and pointed.

Carson stood by the bar with a flavored beer in hand, chatting up a young female server.

“We’re on,” Arthur said, and made a bee-line over towards him, his most charming smile on his face. He had watched Dom charm clients for years.

Carson’s expression was a mix of curiosity with just the under shadings of fear. “Dom Cobb,” he said, through lips that hardly seemed to move enough to form words. “This is… an unexpected surprise.” He nodded towards Tom. “Arthur. What is this about?”

Arthur smiled and returned the handshake offered. Carson’s hands were cold. “I was wondering if I could have a minute of your time?” He made a show of squinting around the room. “Could we talk somewhere private?”

“A job?” Carson asked.

“If you feel you’re up to it,” Tom said, and Arthur had to give him credit: there was a measured amount of disinterest in his voice, as if he couldn’t believe Cobb would come to this guy with work. It hit right at Carson’s ego – exactly as Arthur himself would have played it.

A cool, utterly false smile played across Carson’s face. But he beckoned Arthur and Tom forward, leading them to a shadowed table underneath boroughs of freshly cut wisteria.

The sound in the room was muted – more whisperings from the projections. They were becoming more on edge by the second as if on the verge of realizing that something was going on. Carson was a lucid dreamer by trade – he would not be fooled for much longer.

Arthur and Tom took seats across the table from Carson, and Arthur decided to come to the point. “We’re in need of a forger, a good one.”

“Is that so?” Carson’s smile turned into a smirk and he looked directly at Tom. “What happened to your butt-buddy?”

Tom stared across the table at this man – his tormenter – and didn’t flinch, although a stain of red crept up his neck. “None of your business,” he said, flatly.

“Eames is not available,” Arthur said, trying to recapture Carson’s attention. “It’s a quick job, one level.”

Carson leaned back and made a show of crossing his arms over his chest, clearly liking the idea of having the great Dom Cobb come to him for help. Drawing out the moment. “Sure,” he said, at last. “But I get my third of the deal, _plus_ half of his.” He nodded towards Tom.

“Done,” Arthur said quickly, as if forestalling his point man before he argued. Tom shot him a look which luckily looked more accusing than confused, but didn’t say anything. Just returned to staring at Carson with a clenched jaw and barely concealed dislike in his eyes.

Carson chuckled. “Damn, you two must be desperate.” Again, his eyes fell towards Tom. “And a bad fuck if Eames finally wised up and left.” He turned back to grin at Arthur while Tom clenched a napkin in his fist. “So what’s the job?”

Arthur decided at that moment he didn’t care what damage it made or what it took: he was going to shoot Carson. In reality.

But this was his moment. He pulled a manila folder out of Dom’s vest and slid it across the table. “The mark is the CEO of a major multinational energy company.”

Carson’s fingers stilled for just the briefest of moments before he opened the folder. “Is that so?”

“Our client is a rival company who is the middle of being bought out – the board want blackmail on him, no matter what it takes.” Arthur continued, and then sunk in the proverbial knife. “We plan on buying out his security and making the grab on his own private jet. Simple and neat.”

Carson didn’t say anything as he opened the folder. There, before him was a schematic of what looked to be a private Leerjet. Saito’s private jet.

Arthur saw Tom lean forward in interest – he knew that the folder had contained only blank pieces of paper, before. Carson’s mind had filled it with details of his own job with Muir.

They only had a few seconds to take it in. The schematic, the list of names of people Muir had bought out, the airport the plane was being diverted to – San Diego International – and the time.

Then Carson slammed one hand upon the folder. “What is this?” he demanded, eyes wild as he looked around: a dreamer who was on the verge of realizing he was dreaming.

As one, all conversation in the room ceased and Arthur felt the gaze of a hundred angry eyes on him.

The knowledge that things were about the explode triggered an instinctive reaction to defend – to pull his gun and make sure those under his care were safe – it was part of the reason he made such a good point man, and such a lousy forger. The moment he stopped thinking like Dom, the illusion slipped.

Carson’s eyes widened as he stared at two identical men sitting across from him.

“No…” Carson whispered, realization burning in his eyes.

Arthur reached for the handgun by his side, but Carson was a faction faster.

Carson took aim and fired.

* * *

  
Eames took aim and fired.

His aim was true – the first silly bloke at the top of the stairwell screamed and fell backwards, blood blossoming from the pale sports jacket he’d only seen Cobol Engineering assassins wear.

His mind worked quickly: how did Cobol fit into this? Were they behind the funding to take out Saito?

But he didn’t have much time to think on it as the next man decided to run up, firing wildly, and Eames had to quickly fall to his knees, to avoid a bullet to the throat. Autumn let out a short, truncated, scream from the back of the room where she sat with Tom and Arthur.

Eames returned fire – two shoots that missed and hit respectively. Goon number two went down, clutching his knee, and one more bullet finished him off.

Turning, Eames risked a glance over his shoulder to see Autumn with her hand clapped to her mouth as if she were horrified at her own shriek of fear. The three dreamers slept on: four more minutes on the PASIV’s count-down.

There was a slight lull in the activity below: he heard shouted orders below, the echo of thick boot heels striking flat concrete. It sounded like they were ordering themselves. Not good.

“Autumn,” Eames said calmly, “Please bring me Arthur’s gun. He usually keeps it to the left side.” There were no exits he could see, and if the amount of people on the first floor was accurate, their lives could be measured on the space of time it took for him to run out of ammunition.

Autumn did, though she looked extremely reluctant to leave Tom’s side. “What do we do?” she asked in a voice that only quavered a little.

Eames flashed her a smile he did not remotely feel. “Let’s just hope whatever Arthur and Tom find out down there is enough to get us out of this scrape, yeah?” He gave her a little push towards them. “In the meantime, get out your taser. You may need it.”

“O-okay." Hurrying back to the cot, she took one of Tom’s limp hands into her own. They were shaking hard enough to tremble the IV line.

An authoritative voice called up from below. “Who’s up there?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Eames called back, without pause.

“Our business is with Muir and the architect. You’re out numbered and outgunned. Surrender your weapons and you have my word that you can leave in peace.”

Eames snorted. That wasn’t bloody likely. He was a little unclear if Arthur still carried that price on his head from back before the Fischer job, but as soon as they figured out who and what they were, the only way Cobol would allow them to leave would be in pieces. That, or practically enslave them to work extraction jobs like Muir and Carson did with Tom.

“No deal,” he called, and stalling for time, added, “We’re working with Proclus Global. We received a tip this team was involved in a threat against one of our own. Just to give you a sporting chance – reinforcements are on the way.”

He heard a muffled, “Bullshit,” from a new voice below, quickly stifled.

The authoritative voice spoke again. “You’re not from Saito’s security team. We bought out his security team.”

And before Eames could answer, he heard a new gunshot – not coming from the stairwell, but right at his feet. In that instant, he knew his mistake: the men below used the sound of his voice to pinpoint his general location, and had simply pointed upward.

He threw himself to the side, but it was too late. Fire ripped through his leg.

* * *

  
The muzzle of Carson’s gun flashed and Arthur felt the impact of the bullet like a punch to the chest. The projections all around him shrieked in fear, and above that he heard Tom’s anguished, “NO! Arthur!”

 _”This isn’t real,”_ he wanted to remind him, but couldn’t seem to draw in enough breath to speak.

Another loud bang and Arthur saw Carson’s body crumple – he had eaten the bullet and kicked himself up awake on the second level.

“Arthur! Shit! Hold on… just hold on…” Tom looked broken as he reached over as if trying to somehow stanch the blood from a gaping hole just above his brother’s heart.

Arthur couldn’t draw in enough air to speak, his mouth so full of his own blood he could barely even breathe, but his legs still worked. He kicked Tom sharply in the knee, knocking him back down in his seat. Then, grabbing the back of Tom’s chair, Arthur tipped it backwards.

He caught a flash of Tom’s startled eyes as he fell. His body vanished before hitting the floor, snapped awake into the next level.

The room immediately started to crumple around him. The architect was gone and the dream was collapsing. Arthur shut his eyes, hoping he was killed by a falling beam before he drowned in his own blood.

There was a loud crash, a flash of crushing pain… and abruptly it gone and Arthur was opening his eyes, staring at the ceiling of the teahouse.

A desperate scuffling sound drew his attention: Carson and Tom were fighting for control of a handgun – rolling over and over. Even as Arthur sat up, pulling out his needle and ready to help, Tom got the upper hand, hitting Carson with a teeth-cracking right hook. Carson’s hand came up with the gun, but Tom knocked it away, hitting him again in the side of the head. This time Carson went down and stayed down.

Tom’s face was twisted in an enraged snarl, but that fell away when he looked up and saw Arthur sitting up, and apparently unharmed. “You’re okay?” he asked, and Arthur realized that he must have thought that Carson had killed him for real.

Arthur nodded. “I told you that you just wake up. Next time, just shoot me in the head and put me out of my misery.” He grimaced, resisting the urge to rub his chest where a phantom ache still lingered. “Bleeding to death sucks.”

Tom barked out a short, surprised laugh. “I can’t believe you do this for a living.”

He shrugged. “I—“

And that’s when the sound of gun-fire echoed through the room. The twins ducked on impulse, but instead of the sharp crack of normal gunfire it sounded… slowed down, stretched oddly as if coming at them from a long way off.

Arthur’s breath seemed to freeze in his chest. “That’s coming from up top,” he said. “We have to wake up. Hand me the gun.” And when Tom hesitated and Arthur snapped. “Autumn and Eames are in trouble. Give me the gun!”

That did it. “Okay,” Tom said low, still hesitant, but handed it over.

Arthur looked him straight in the eye. “Trust me,” he said, and aimed his shot right between Tom’s eyes. His brother crumpled, and Arthur put the gun to his own temple and squeezed the trigger.

* * *

Arthur heard the sound of more gunfire as he came awake – sharp and immediate. He blinked open his eyes just in time to see Eames fall.

"EAMES!" the name ripped from his throat, harsh and distorted. Arthur was up and running towards him the second the needle was out.

Eames was trying to scoot himself backwards, away from the bullet marked floor. Roughly, Arthur grabbed him under the armpits and hauled him backwards towards the far wall moments before a second round of fresh gunfire ripped through the rug, upward towards the ceiling where he had been a second before.

"Fine—I'm fine," Eames gasped, and shoved his handgun into Arthur's hands. "They'll be coming up second now."

It was impossible to know how bad the wound was – blood was staining the leg of Eames' right calf, but it only looked to be one hit. There wasn't time to treat it now.

Nodding, Arthur sensed someone at his back. It was Tom, his face thin and looking exhausted, but his eyes alert.

"We need to find a way out," Arthur said. "Preferably something other than shooting our way back downstairs."

"There's a fire escape out there. It should lead around to the back of the building,” Tom said, pointing to a window so grimy it was nearly impossible to see through, save for what looked like a shadowed railing.

Wary of being shot through the floor, Autumn minced over to the window and wiped her sleeve over it. Then, after squinting through the grime she turned back to them and nodded.

“Tom, get Eames out of here. I’ll cover your backs,” Arthur said, and when Tom looked rebellious he said. “This is what I do. Please, just go.”

“Better listen to him,” Eames added, wincing as he leveraged himself up with only one working leg. Tom helped him to stand, throwing Eames’ arm around his shoulder and taking his weight.

Arthur had an odd moment, seeing Tom and Eames standing together. He realized that he and Eames made a handsome pair.

The sound of footsteps hesitantly ascending the stairwell shook him back to the present. “Go,” Arthur said, turning with gun leveled. “I’ll be right after you.”

It seemed whoever was coordinating the men downstairs wasn’t sure if there were any casualties or not and were sending up a few men at a time. Arthur shot twice down the stairwell as warning and to give himself space, and grinned when he heard an answering cry of pain as one of the ricochets accidently struck a target. Good.

He bent to search one of several bodies that Eames must have downed and came away with an extra handgun, and then pay-dirt: two grenades.

Arthur had always hated Cobol Engineering ever since that first botched extraction, but at least they equipped their employees well.

Tom and Autumn had just got Eames outside to the fire escape, so Arthur worked to keep attention on him and the stairwell – shooting down there at random intervals to keep anyone from charging up. When he was low on bullets and five minutes had passed by his internal count, he picked up the first hand grenade, pulled the pin and lobbed it down.

Turning, he sprinted for the fire escape, hearing several panicked shouts behind him as the unlucky men downstairs realized what had just come down.

He paused just long enough to snap the PASIV case shut and grab the handle.

The explosion ripped through the warehouse, shuddering the thin floor. Arthur made a running leap for the window and caught the sill in one hand as the rusty support beams gave way and the floor lurched under him. Pulling himself up, he tumbled through the open window and out to the landing which led to the fire escape.

This side of the building was shadowed and led to a skinny alleyway, too narrow for even a car to fit in. It was no wonder the Cobol men hadn’t covered it – they probably didn’t notice it at all.

PASIV still in hand, Arthur climbed down the escape, but had to drop the last ten feet as the ladder ran short. He winced as he saw a bright smear of blood on the asphalt. From Eames, most likely, although Arthur couldn’t see them anywhere. He followed the small spots of blood he could see, glistening on the pavement – heart in his throat.

A sudden shout echoed behind him and Arthur ducked as bullets flew over his head. He turned down the next alleyway, past another abandoned warehouse. He came out the other side, looking right and then left and seeing empty road on either side.

Then, in answer to an unasked prayer, Autumn’s SUV roared into view.

Autumn was driving and she screeched to a stop right beside him.

“Go, go!” Arthur yelled, climbing in and shutting the door just as a bullet took out one of the back windows.

“Shit!” Autumn screeched, and punched the gas.

“Are you okay?” Tom asked, from his spot in the passenger seat.

“Yeah.” Arthur turned to Eames who was laid partially out on the back bench seat, pale and looking pained. Someone had fixed a tourniquet around his bloodied leg, but Eames was strong enough to bat his hands away when Arthur went to examine the wound.

“Clean wound through the calf,” he grunted. “You may have to wheel me around for a bit, darling.”

“Bullshit,” Arthur said, and surprised himself with how his voice cracked. He took Eames’ hand, squeezing tightly. “You can survive on crutches.”

Eames’ lips ticked up at the corners. He glanced at the extra silver briefcase. “You brought Carson’s PASIV?”

Arthur nodded, and deciding that Eames wouldn’t need immediate medical attention, turned to his brother. Tom was holding Autumn’s hand as well, with almost white knuckled strength. The reflection of him and Eames, Tom and Autumn almost derailed Arthur’s thoughts for a moment. Then he cleared his throat and spoke.

“Here, this should be yours,” he said, indicating the PASIV. “The black market value for a second generation device like this is around one hundred thousand.”

Autumn gasped, but Tom was more hesitant, shaking his head. “I can’t…” he said, looking at the device with mixed emotions in his eyes. Fear and something else. Longing, perhaps. “I can’t. You take it.”

“I already have one.” Arthur set the briefcase down, deliberately under the seat.

Tom shook his head again but didn’t object. That’s when Arthur noticed his free hand was stuffed in his side-pants pocket, as if looking for something. Remembering his promise in the dream, Arthur reached into his own pocket and withdrew his totem. He felt Eames’ eyes sharply focused on him as he put it in Tom’s cupped palm.

His brother’s fingers closed around it and Tom gave a sigh, his shoulders visibly relaxing into a slump. “Thanks.”

“It’s not over with yet,” Eames said darkly, and at Arthur’s questioning look, said, “I’m certain the Muir got away along with most of the Cobol assassins. We still have Saito to contend with. Did you happen to extract anything interesting down there?”

Arthur and Tom exchanged a look.

“Just one thing,” Arthur said. “Autumn, how far are we from San Diego International?”

* * *

  
Saito woke to the smell of something sharp and pungent right under his nose. He blinked, and heard someone replace the cap of smelling salts as the world spun into focus.

“Welcome to San Diego, Mr. Saito,” said a deep, professionally clipped voice.

“San Diego?” Saito blinked again as the final bits of lassitude washed away and he recognized the man standing before him as Arthur. He was as rumpled as Saito had ever seen him – his hair falling out of its normal gel, and shadows of exhaustion under his eyes. Reflexively, Saito clenched his fist and felt the slight dig of his downturned ring against his palm – his personal totem. He was indeed awake, and still aboard his jet if his surroundings were to be believed. “I gave orders for this jet to land in Los Angeles.”

“It seems Petrox Green’s board of directors had other ideas. They paid off your pilot and many of your top level security to sedate you, take control of the jet, and reroute your flight.”

“For an extraction?” Saito asked, and felt a thrill of carefully controlled fear. “Or… inception?”

Arthur shook his head. “We have no direct evidence, but we believe they went through Cobol Engineering for the means to hire the same team Eames and I were looking for, with the purpose of… damaging your subconscious. Incapacitation.” He nodded behind him to where another man stood, half in shadow, carefully holding a gun on several of Saito’s security team – now bound and gagged. The rest of Saito’s team, those who were presumably loyal, seemed to be in the process of binding the rest.

“We had a man on the inside,” Arthur said, and at his slight smirk the shadowed figure took a step forward. It was not Mr. Eames as Saito had presumed, but… well, he was clearly _not_ Arthur, either, being a shade thinner and even more ragged looking. He also did not hold himself like an experienced fighter, to Saito’s eye, but the resemblance was uncanny.

“Your brother, I take it?” Saito asked, and the other man nodded warily.

“I’m Tom. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Saito.”

Later, Saito would allow himself to feel the sting of betrayal from his security team. He was loyal to those who showed their loyalty to him – that even some of them could be bought of was deeply disturbing.

Now, however, he had to work with what he had in the present. “Than I believe I owe you my thanks.” He inclined his head towards Arthur as he spoke.

Arthur smiled tightly. “You hired us to do the job. Although I need to ask two favors.”

“Go on.”

“Eames was shot,” Arthur said, expression turning serious again. “It’s not life threatening, but I would prefer it if he was seen by a physician… discreetly.”

That was reasonable. “You may have access to my personal doctor.”

“Secondly,” Arthur’s hesitation was slight, but noticeable. “Tom may have made himself an enemy of Cobol Engineering. If there’s a price put on his head, I need it taken care of.”

“Consider it done.” Once Saito finally purchased Petrox Green, he would have the majority share of the energy companies within the Western part of North America. Persuading Cobol to drop a hit would not take much effort. “And if the price should be on your head?”

The tight, false smile was back. “I can take care of myself.”

More likely, he did not want to put himself too far within Saito’s debt – which was something that Saito himself could appreciate. The fact that he would do so for Eames and his brother, however, spoke volumes. Saito filed it away, as he did most points of interest with business associates. Arthur had shown himself to be an honorable man, both today and during the inception job. However, old habits died hard.

Saito stood and took a slow sweeping look at the seats around him. It seemed that his remaining security team now had the situation well in hand. He turned to Arthur and offered his hand.

“Until next time.”

Arthur’s handshake was firm and as rigidly professional as always. Tom, however, grinned almost jauntily and nodded his goodbye before turning to follow his brother out.

Saito decided it would be prudent to keep a quiet watch on both of them, should he need their services again in the future.


	6. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I added two chapters at once, so please make sure you have already read the last chapter before reading through this spoilery epilogue. XD

Arthur adjusted his sun glasses against the bright afternoon sun and wandered to the grill to make sure Rachel wasn't going to overcook the burgers. Behind him, he heard his mother and Autumn laughing at a comment from Eames. Rachel had been right all of those months ago when she said that their mother would like Eames. Arthur hadn't expected it – her opinion of who he chose to love hadn't mattered for a long time now -- but he was little surprised on how... relieved he had been.

Tom was on the other end of the yard, teasing their mother's terrier by making it leap high for the tennis ball in his hand.

Seeing his brother head to the grill, Tom called, "Make sure she cooks mine medium!"

"I got it, I got it," Rachel whined, but Arthur could see that several burgers were overdone already. At least Eames liked his grey through the middle. Avoiding his sister trying to poke him off with the spatula, Arthur reached over and turned down the flame.

"Now you got it," he said, smugly.

"Ugh. You are so overbearing." She scowled at him with mock ferocity. This bar-be-que was her idea, and so she was determined to take charge over everything. "Get out of here," she said, giving him a little push. "Food's in five minutes."

Chuckling, Arthur left her to destroy their lunch, and, deciding Eames was in his element putting the charm on, went to join Tom. They tossed the ball back and forth, the terrier yapping shrilly between them, before Arthur asked, "How's the new job?"

"Fine," Tom said. "It's a large firm, and they pretty much have all the entry-level guys like me correcting blueprints all day." He tossed the ball back, but Arthur missed and the terrier quickly scooped up its prize and ran off, shaking the tennis ball as if it were a rat it was trying to kill.

"It's a little boring," Tom admitted, as they watched the dog streak away. "I keep thinking about how it would be easier, you know, to build first in a dream and transpose it into print after."

"There's nothing like it, is there?" Arthur asked.

Tom shook his head. He hadn't asked Arthur to find a buyer for the second PASIV device – Arthur suspected Tom was using it himself, which he had a hard time blaming him for. Tom had an artist's soul and there was hardly anything to compare to seeing one's work come alive in front of you.

Rachel called that the burgers were ready, and together the twins rejoined the others at the picnic table.

The burgers were, of course, overdone, grey, and rubbery. But sitting beside Eames with their thighs touching (the other man covertly fed the terrier under the table, winning yet another friend), listening to Autumn go on with office gossip about people he didn't know, and Rachel trying to marshal everyone into taking seconds, Arthur felt oddly at peace.

He was trying to choke down a second burger when his phone rang.

Eames caught his eye, his eyebrow raised as he recognized _that_ particular ringtone. Arthur shrugged a reply and excused himself to take the call.

"Arthur speaking."

"How soon can you and Eames be in Los Angeles?" Dom asked, without greeting.

As a matter of fact, Arthur was in the city at that moment, a few miles away from Dom's house as the crow flies. But he said, "I thought you were retired."

"It's a small job," Dom replied, "Real easy."

 _Small jobs usually don't require forgers,_ Arthur thought, but didn't say. "We can be in tomorrow morning." He paused as a particular thought struck him. "Do you have an architect lined up?"

"No. Ariadne is stuck working with Lopez and his crew through the end of the month." Dom sounded slightly disgruntled about it. "Why? Do you have someone in mind?"

Arthur glanced back towards the picnic table. "I might, but he's green. You'll have to train him."

"Trustworthy?"

He smiled. "I trust him."

"Then bring him along. Meet me at my house at three?"

Arthur confirmed and hung up.

"I know that look," Eames murmured, as Arthur rejoined them. "Did I not tell you that his retirement wouldn't last?"

Arthur flashed him a quick smirk and then held out his plate for more of Rachel's potato salad, which was at least mixed well. Later, he would pull Tom aside and offer him the job, though he suspected he wouldn't have much trouble convincing him.

He felt Eames slide a hand to his knee and squeeze, smiling as if he had already guessed Arthur's thoughts.

"I'm looking forward to seeing the expression on Cobb's face," Eames said.

Arthur covered his hand with his own and squeezed back.

  


  


  
_~ Fin ~_   


  


  


**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Thicker Than Blood](https://archiveofourown.org/works/350768) by [kansouame](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kansouame/pseuds/kansouame)




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